Lessons
by MonicaMeMe
Summary: Murders at a college campus lead the brothers on a ghost hunt where Dean seems likely to become the next victim. M for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Author: **M.Marinov  
**Rating: **PG-13 for language, violence (Dean Whumpage style), and sensitive themes.  
**Category:** Gen. Multi-chap.**  
Warnings: **Some of the bad guys don't play nice.  
**Spoilers: **The season through 'Dead Man's Blood' just to be safe, but nothing explicit.  
**Disclaimer:** I lay claim to nothing. Not my universe, I just play in it.  
**A/N: **A huge thank you to Chini for an awesome beta job! It's amazing the things those guys pick up ;) A heaping of gratitude. Reviews are alwaysappreciated!

**Summary:** Murders at a college campus lead the brothers on a ghost hunt where Dean seems likely to become the next victim.

**Lessons: Chapter One **

Sam felt like his head was about to explode. The pounding grew stronger every time he blinked, moved or even talked. It had started off as a dull throb, but was growing steadily with every passing moment.

"I'm bored."

And his brother wasn't helping.

"You like scamming people out of their money. Go play some pool." Scanning the store windows and telephone poles for missing person alerts as they walked, Sam tried to take his mind off the way his vision was swimming at the edges.

"Nah, they kicked me out last night. Something about lying and cheating and my smug face. How much you wanna bet they meant my ravishingly handsome face?"

Sam only resisted rolling his eyes because the wince would have alerted Dean to the small battalion waging war in his head. "Go back to the motel and take a nap, then."

"Dude, do I look two?"

"And do I look like your babysitter? Read a book."

"_You're_ the Geek Boy."

"Hide behind some bushes and scare some kids."

"Now you're not even trying."

Sam jarred to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to face his brother. He was getting more annoyed as the day wore on, and it was barely noon. "Find our next case, then," he said tersely. "Hit on some poor waitress, write the next Broadway hit, I don't care, Dean; but if you say you're bored one more time, I'm going to _kill_ you."

Dean's brow furrowed with a frown that dissolved quickly into a grin.

Clenching his jaw, Sam strode away before Dean could call his bluff.

"What? I wasn't gonna say it." Dean caught up with Sam and sighed. "Man, this town is Boringsville, USA. Their bars close at eleven. Eleven, Sam. Not eleven AM, after a night of chicks and booze. Eleven PM, _before_ the AM!"

"Stop saying eleven." Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets against the day's chill as Dean restlessly strode forward. Sam closed his eyes for a second, giving in to the weight pressing against them. Spots of red and flashes of light wove through the curtain of black that descended along with his eyelids. It was almost like an image trying to take form.

"Dude, there's no job for us here," Dean said. Sam forced his eyes back open as Dean strode up to the nearest telephone pole. He was still seeing those dancing red dots.

"Missing dog. Ten dollar reward." Dean yanked a poster from the pole and slapped the page in disgust. Shoving it under Sam's nose, he asked, "Finding Fido look interesting to you, Sammy? Or can we just hit the road already."

Sam snatched the page from Dean's hands, smoothed it out and stuck it back on the pole. "One night won't hurt."

"Is it Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, or something?"

"What's so bad about that?"

"Rekindling your love with Geek TV? I just got you de-toxed, Dude. If you need a fix, let me talk you through it with some Blue Oyster Cult. "

"No, Dean, wanting to spend _one _night in an actual bed, with sheets and a _pillow._"

"What's wrong with my car?"

Sam sighed and forced himself forward. How could Dean stand spending day after day on the road, without real food or a proper bed, always looking for a hunt? Wasn't he tired? Sam sure as hell was.

"Wait," Dean jogged to catch up. "Okay, fine, we'll spend a few days in The Middle of Nowhere. I'll even buy you a candy apple. Just, dude, stop with the dramatic exits."

Sam glanced at his brother. "Really?"

"About the candy apple? Well, hey, if you really want one."

Sam snorted, trying to keep the smile from his lips. "About staying for a while."

Dean shrugged. "Sure. Who knows? If we're lucky, we might run into a zombie."

A wailing shriek screamed through Sam's head as an ambulance careened past and turned a corner. The siren clanged around inside his skull, colliding with and intensifying his headache to the point where it almost seemed sane to pull a Van Gough by chopping off his own ears

"Guess you're not going to be bored for much longer," Sam said, trying to keep his voice steady.

This was almost a second skin for him, this guise of normality. He'd spent four years in college perfecting the act, learning to push away what intruded on the life he wanted until, without really noticing, that habit became instinctual.

"No way. My Dallas Cowboy cheerleader wishes don't come true, but the gods are listening when I say I'm _bored_?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yes, Dean, because the world revolves around you."

"Well, I always thought so."

Sam felt his lips form a smirk and felt his hand reach out to lightly whack Dean's arm. "C'mon," he heard himself scoff, and started for the street where the ambulance had turned. He felt himself act normal though his head was screaming that something was wrong.

* * *

People were scattered across a large, freshly cut lawn, craning their necks to see around uniformed cops setting up sawhorses to block off the crowd. Old buildings lined the sidewalk. Some were peppered with monuments and all were flanked by neat hedges and gardens. Whispers traveled through the crowd like snatches of gossip and curiosity caught in the breeze.

"Isn't this the local college?" Dean asked.

"Yeah." Sam rubbed his forehead, pain spreading through him until his whole body was engulfed by it.

"Sam?"

Blinking through the red and blue dots dancing through his vision, Sam and saw Dean coming back.

I'm fine," Sam said pre-emotively, shaking his head to clear the dots but only managing to make it worse.

Dean peered at Sam's face. "You look like you're about to puke."

"Well, I'm not, your shoes are safe," he tried to joke before squeezing past Dean and into the crowd. He didn't mean to brush his brother off, but he didn't want Dean worrying. It was just a headache. It had to be. No vision had ever begun like this before.

Sam reached the front of the crowd where paramedics and cops were trying to hide the worst of it as a crime scene photographer snapped pictures. On the pavement in front of one of the buildings, a young girl – most likely a college student -- lay in a pool of her own blood. She had a tattoo of a spearhead on the small of her back, peeking out from the gap between her shirt and jeans.

"I'm not worried about my shoes," Dean muttered, appearing beside Sam in that silent way he had of showing up before you realized he was there. "Though they are nice," he added almost as an afterthought. Then, as if only now noticing the body at his feet, he said, "Definitely up there on my lists of things I didn't need to see this soon after breakfast."

"Tell me about it."

"Horrible isn't it?" chimed in an older woman standing beside them. She tightened her cardigan and visibly shivered. "The pressure these schools put on young people."

"It was suicide?" Dean asked.

The woman nodded. "Third one in as many months. The government needs to do something."

"Clean up crews?" Dean muttered.

Sam poked Dean in the back. Dean pushed him away and turned back to the woman. "Are you sure it was suicide? No one heard a scream or a struggle? She didn't hit head first, did she?"

The woman turned to give him ad odd expression.

Sam grabbed Dean's arm. "He's a CSI fan," he explained, forcing a smile before pulling Dean to the edge of the crowd.

"Yeah that blonde chick is hot," Dean grinned at her before turning to Sam and yanking his arm free. "Dude, hands."

"Dude, brain. You can't ask people things like that."

"Why?"

Sam stared at Dean for a second. "Because…you just _can't_. Normal people don't ask things like that."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Normal. _That's_ what I want to be. Good argument."

Sam sighed. "Think we should check it out?"

"Why? She took a nose dive and…" Dean's voice trailed off, distracted by a movement in one of the building's windows.

Frowning, Sam followed Dean's gaze. The windows were full of students trying to see what had happened, but that was to be expected. "Dean?"

Dean blinked. "Huh?" He stared at Sam's face blankly for a second; then, shaking off the grog of his stun, he asked, "Dude, did you see that?"

"What?" Sam looked up again but saw nothing unusual.

"The girl."

"Which girl?"

"In the window. All Japanese horror film like. Creepy as hell."

Sam frowned, scanning building's windows. "Maybe she's an art student?"

"Funny." He slapped Sam's arm and pointed. "There!"

Sam looked where Dean was pointing. He still saw nothing but curious students. He let his gaze travel the windows slowly, lingering over every face. There. A flicker. Black eyes. He blinked and she disappeared.

He started to say something, but then she re-appeared in another window. She looked cold and still, pale as porcelain with eyes so dark and deep they looked black. Her eyes swiveled his direction the instant he looked her way. She cocked her head and reached out to press her fingers against the glass. Her lips moved. Frowning, Sam tried to focus on them, to work out what she was saying, but he couldn't pull his focus from her eyes. They seemed to be getting darker, and even though neither of them was moving, the space between them lessened until he was sure he could feel her breath on his face. The sound of the crowd on the lawn dulled until all he could hear was his own heart beating and his own breath passing his lips. The world around him faded until all he could see were those eyes, until all he could feel was the pounding in his head. The pain intensified, spreading through his whole body like a fire. He wanted to cry out and grab his head, but he couldn't move.

He couldn't stop the headache from forming into images for a second longer. The pain in his head exploded.

Like a firecracker, images shot through his mind, bouncing off each other so fast that all he could catch were snippets. Drops of blood hitting a wood floor, tilting blue symbols, a wall of spears, a body falling from a window, a fire, the body hitting the ground, his own voice screaming Dean's name …

Sam gasped as the images fled his mind and left a black void in their wake – black like those endless, black eyes.

His eyes sprang open and he found himself staring at a blue sky, then Dean's worried face. And others, one holding up two fingers and speaking. Sam turned his head to the side and saw legs and shoes, He must have fallen, ended up lying on the grass. He sat up. And almost fell over again.

Dean grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, holding him upright. and,watching him closely. "Hey, Sammy, you okay?"

"Um, yeah." Sam rubbed his temples, still seeing those dark eyes.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" the paramedic asked again. There was half a crowd gathered around him in addition to Dean and the paramedic. Great. He always loved creating undue attention by falling on his ass in the middle of a crowd.

"Two. I'm fine, really." He looked to Dean for help. Dean nodded.

"He doesn't like the sight of blood," Dean told the paramedic, pulling Sam up. "This is nothing; you should see him after a horror flick."

The paramedic didn't look convinced. "People don't usually grab at their heads and gasp at the sight of blood."

Dean looked annoyed at having logic thrown back at him. Sam just felt embarrassed. "Yeah well, he's one of those super-sensitive ones, okay?"

"Dean." Sam turned to the paramedic, smiling in assurance. "Really, thank you, but I'm fine."

The paramedic sighed and shrugged. "Might want to go to campus Health just to be safe."

Dean smiled tightly and pulled Sam away from the crowd, around the corner of one of the buildings. "Hey, what happened?" Dean asked, the smile instantly falling from his face.

"I don't know." Sam shrugged off Dean's arm and turned back to the window. It was empty. "I saw… flashes of…I don't know... Something bad is going to happen here, Dean." He glanced back at the crowd as they parted to let the gurney through as it wheeled away the body. "Something worse." He turned back to look at the building where the girl had stood in the window.

"Wait," Dean said, walking around Sam to stand in front of him and cut off his view of that building, ignoring the fact that Sam's height made his attempt more or less useless. "You had a vision?"

Sam frowned, thinking back to the images that had rushed through his head faster than he could control. "No, they weren't mine…They were hers, I think." He reached up to rub his head, then frowned. "My headache's gone," he said, surprised.

"You had a headache? And why didn't I know about this?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I have an itch on my knee, too, did you want to know about that?"

"If that knee had psychic flashes every time it got an itch, yeah I would."

Sam sighed at the concern in Dean's voice. "Look, all I know is I was looking at the girl in the window and I suddenly had these…flashes…and then I'm on the ground staring at your ugly mug."

Dean stared at Sam fir a few seconds, letting him know he didn't buy it. "Ugly what?" Dean slapped Sam's shoulder, letting the topic slide. For now. "Looks like we've got ourselves some ghostbustin' to do."

"Do you really think it's a ghost, as in disembodied spirit? I was thinking more a manifestation or something. Maybe an omen … like a banshee, only more Asian?"

"Beats me. But I'm good with BansheeBusting, too."

Sam smirked. "Could you at least _try_ not to look so happy?"

Dean shrugged. "Beats candy apples and watching Oprah. So, where do you want to go first? The room the chick took the swan dive from or the one the dead chick was in? Your turn to pick. Or do you wanna eenie-meenie-mo it?"

Sam chewed his lip, looking back up at the now-empty window. "The victim's room," he said finally. "If something supernatural made her jump the EMF should pick up the residual energy."

"Jumper's room it is."

* * *

Dean stamped his feet against the cold night air, though it wasn't long before someone came out of the dorm building. Dean quickly grabbed the door before it could close and ushered Sam inside, hurrying in after him. They'd been forced to wait until nightfall for the police to clear the girl's room and Dean was itching for some action other than Oprah reruns.

Once inside the hallway, Dean pulled out the EMF detector and handed it to Sam, keeping the ITS for himself. The hallway was unnaturally quiet – no sounds were coming from behind any of the doors, and the small space seemed to echo with their footsteps.

Dean kept an eye on each portrait and framed painting that they passed, waiting for one of the characters to flicker into life. Yeah, their past few hunts had taught him to expect anything.

"What exactly did you see?" Dean asked Sam, more to fill the space with another sound besides their footsteps.

Sam looked up, a strange look crossing his face. He shrugged slightly, his eyes returning to the EMF. "I couldn't make them out."

Dean recognized that low, clipped tone. Sam wasn't telling him something. Before he could push the topic, he heard a radio crackling and he quickly shoved Sam behind a corner. A second later, a security officer strode past. Dean watched him round the corner before hurrying for the girl's room.

The room looked normal. Books lay open on the desk, the computer was whirring softly, the bed was rumpled, balled up chocolate bar wrappers sat next to the wastebasket, obviously having missed their target, and Drew Barrymore smiled up at them from the front page of a glossy new magazine half hanging off the night table.

Dean glanced at his ITS. Nothing. "Come out, come out wherever you are…"

Sam started roaming the room, moving the EMF over the walls.

Letting Sam take care of the bedroom, Dean walked back through the common room and into the small bathroom. He flipped the switch and fluorescent lights flickered on. Dean opened the cabinet and started searching through it for any tell-tale medication. Finding nothing more interesting than Cinnamon flavored toothpaste, he sighed and closed the cabinet, revealing in its mirror a set of dark eyes. Dean whipped around and pulled his gun from his waistband. The room was empty. He glanced back at the mirror, but it only reflected his face, and paler than he'd like it to be. Annoyed for being spooked, Dean cocked his gun and let his eyes slide towards the shower curtain. He tore it open, finding nothing but gleaming tiles.

"You're a tease, huh?" he muttered. The lights flickered and he felt cold breath on his neck. He turned and found himself face to face with that pale girl from the window.

"Boo," she whispered before vanishing, leaving behind a giggle that bounced off the walls before fading away.

Dean waited for a second with his gun raised. When she didn't reappear, he risked a glance down at his ITS. It read nothing.

Dean reentered the bedroom, tucking his gun back into his waistband.

Sam looked up, a handful of underwear clutched in his hand from the drawer he'd been rummaging through. "This really isn't…" he said, a flush painting his cheeks. "I was looking for a diary or something."

"Whatever, dude. I don't care whose panties you poke through. She's here."

"What happened?"

"I just had a close encounter of the dead emo kind."

Sam glanced down at his EMF. "It's not reading any activity."

"Mine either," Dean said, shoving the thing back into his backpack. "Useless piece of crap."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I know; I made this damn thing."

Sam rolled his eyes. "No, Dean. I mean this thing must not be giving off any electromagnetic energy."

"That's impossible," he sat down and twirled himself towards the humming computer, moving the mouse so that the screensaver disappeared. "All dead nasties give off a vibe."

"Yeah, you're right, Dean. She's obviously just a magician who can, you know, disappear with a click of her fingers. Nothing unusual about that."

"Or maybe the detector's just broken, dumbass."

"Both of them?"

"Hate to break it to ya, Sammy boy, but stranger things have happened."

Sam knew Dean considered himself more or less an expert in all things ghostly – he knew the game, he knew the rules and the players, and he didn't like it when those things started to mix up. To him it wasn't the supernatural that was dangerous, it was change. So Sam let the argument slide and walked up to the computer. "Find anything?"

"No suicide note that I can see. Looks like she was writing an essay." Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam. "Would you spend your last hours writing an essay?"

Sam thought about it.

"Oh god, you would, wouldn't you?"

"What? No. I wasn't thinking about that. Did the ghost say anything?"

"Boo."

"What?"

"She said boo. And giggled." Dean shrugged. "Hey, _I'm _not the crazy one."

A thump sounded in the other bedroom. Dean stood beside Sam and they both tightened their grips on their guns and began creeping towards the door, but then another sound, like rattling coat hangers, emitted from the closet.

"Gee, you think it's trying to separate us?" Dean looked from the closet to the other room. "You take the room, I'll take the miniskirts."

Sam nodded. "Be careful."

"Of the coat hangers?" Dean smirked. "You're right, they could jab me in the eye."

Sam sighed. "Or there could be a closet monster ready to spring out and _gouge_ out your eyes." He walked out before Dean had a chance to reply.

"Everyone's a comedian," Dean muttered. He walked over to the closet and grabbed the handle, but hesitated. Swearing silently at Sam, Dean stepped to the side, away from the immediate line of fire, then jerked the closet door open. It hit the wall with a thud and bounced off it, swaying and creaking. He waited for a second, stepping forward cautiously when nothing tried to attack him, coat hanger or otherwise. He roughly pushed aside the clothes and kicked at the shoes but found nothing.

Then he froze, feeling that cold breath on his neck again. He stood still, fingers tightening on the gun, feeling the breaths hit his skin like bursts of cold wind. He slowly turned around, expecting her to disappear the second he did and reappear behind him, where he planned to whip around and shoot a round into her, but he continued to feel the cold breaths until he found himself face to face with her pasty complexion. He took a step backwards and tried to raise his gun. But his movements were slow, too slow, like he was stuck underwater, or in a thick fog that was wrapping itself around his arms and legs and floating in front of his vision, disorientating him. Pull the trigger, his mind shouted. Pull it! But his fingers wouldn't work. It was like he'd forgotten how to use them.

Her lips moved and a voice floated from them, carried to him like on a breeze. _I know what you did…  
_

* * *

  
Sam lifted up the blanket to check under the bed. No dirty magazines, no hidden love letters, no supernatural entity. Sighing, he pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. A ghost with no energy, and a noise with no owner. So much for the Shark Week.

There was a muffled noise from the other room, like something falling to the floor, then the door between them slammed shut. "Dean!" Sam jumped up, running for the other bedroom, his stomach dropping.

He flung the door open. Something flickered, then vanished. Dean was standing near an open window, looking dazed and confused.

"Dean?" Sam ventured.

Dean turned his head. He stared at Sam like he'd just noticed him standing there, then frowned, looking around the room until he found his gun, lying in the open doorway of the closet. He gestured vaguely, asking, "What's that doing all the way over there?"

Sam looked from the gun to Dean. "What happened?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know. That ghost appeared and I…I guess I went in some sort of trance. I sure as hell don't remember dropping my gun. Or, you know, walking halfway across the room." He scratched his head and turned to look at the window behind him. "At least I didn't end up butt naked in the middle of the quad, huh?"

Sam started to answer, but the door opened, and a girl carrying a large cardboard box walked in. She stopped short when she saw them. She frowned, her eyes red and puffy. "I didn't know anyone was in here. Sorry."

She started to back out but Sam quickly stepped forward. "No, it's fine, we were just leaving."

She nodded absently, walked in, and put the box down on the bed.

"Uh, actually … we're from the school paper. Do you think we could -" Sam glanced over at Dean only to find him leaning against the windowsill, staring out with a frown. "Um, do you think _I _could ask you some questions?"

The girl nodded, sitting on the bed and picking up the magazine before it fell off the bedside table. Sam grabbed the computer chair and pulled it forward, sitting across from her. "You knew…uh…?"

"Sherrie. Sherrie Cruiser. Yeah I did. I'm Claire, one of her roommates. I just came to grab some stuff – to send to her family, you know…" She started fiddling with the magazine, flipping through it and breathing deeply. She looked up and smiled tightly. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine. This must be hard for you. Was Sherrie, um…did she ever say anything about -"

"Was she suicidal, you mean? No. Never. That's what's so weird. She said those people who killed themselves were fucking retards."

Sam was taken aback. Even Dean turned, one eyebrow raised.

"Wow, that sounded bad, didn't it?"

Yeah," Dean said, walking away from the window.

"No," Sam corrected, resisting the urge to glare at his brother.

"It's just…Sherrie's really competitive, and those three others that, you know, jumped, were her biggest competition. They were at each other like cats and dogs." Claire paused to scratch absently at her jeans.

"So she killed them?"

"Dean!"

"What? She said they were enemies."

"No, no, I'm making her sound bad." Claire took a deep breath and continued. "She _liked_ the competition. It gave her a rush, you know? She was disappointed that they opted for the easy way out, I guess. So…yeah, I don't know why she would do it herself. It doesn't make sense."

"Was she acting differently today?"

Claire thought about it for a second before shaking her head. "No –Oh, wait, yeah. I saw her briefly on her way back from her morning class. She was acting out of it. Dazed. I just thought class was really boring or something."

Sam shot Dean what he hoped was a discrete warning not to joke about being bored to death. "Okay, thank you for your time and we're really sorry for your loss." Sam stood up and pushed the chair back in front of the computer, following Dean to the door.

Dean turned back around. "That tat, on her back…it looked new, were you with her when she got it?"

"Sherrie doesn't have a tattoo. She thought they were stupid too."

"My mistake." Dean exchanged a look with Sam before smiling politely and shutting the bedroom door, leaving Claire to sort through Sherrie's things.

Sam sighed as they walked down the stairs and rubbed his eyes again. He was tired; the headache from that morning had left him lightheaded. A cold breeze hit his neck. He turned but found nothing but an empty stairwell. Shrugging his coat closer, Sam followed Dean, letting his mind travel back to those images that the girl had shown him – the blood, the falling body, the sound of his own voice calling Dean's name. From somewhere in those flashing images, or maybe from the walls of the hall itself, a whisper crept into his mind.

_Tomorrow dead will come to stay…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Rating for language and violence. **

**Thank you for the reviews:) **

**Chapter Two:**

_His footsteps echoed, bouncing off the walls and into his head, making his vision flicker, making the walls around him sway until they cracked, sway until they crumbled, leaving behind a black void so deep that Sam was sure he'd disappear into it. That he'd flicker and disappear just like those images rushing past his head: A body falling from a window, a laughing student, a crackling fire… all gone the second Sam tried to catch them. _ _Then Sam was on the lawn, looking up at the window where the girl stood. She smiled and held up her hands, ten fingers that were slowly counting down. Sam stood transfixed by each finger as it curled down, listening to the beat that followed each, like Death's solemn funeral march. Three. Beat. Two. Beat. One. _Tomorrow dead will come to stay._ Then Sam stood where the girl had been, watching himself as he walked up to Dean, watching himself grab Dean's head and twist._

Sam's eyes flew open before the snap could ring out. He sprung up in the motel bed, his heart beating so loudly it sent his mind hurtling back to those pale fingers and cold smile. What was she counting down? Dean's death? Sam flung off the sheets. His brother's death at his own fucking hands?

Sam ran a hand over his face, waiting for his heart to slow down. Dreams weren't like visions. They were just games your mind played while you slept after perusing your subconscious for ammunition. Nothing more. And if it wasn't his mind feeding him nightmares, then that girl from the dorms had something to do with it. It made sense that she was playing games with his mind – that's what ghosts did: they haunted, and that's what she was: a ghost. Even if the EMF and ITS read otherwise.

The door to their motel room clicked open and Dean strode in. He chucked his duffel bag onto his bed, glancing at Sam. "You were sleeping?"

"Yeah," Sam said, grabbing his pants off the floor and pulling them on, not yet able to look Dean in the eye: The dream was lingering so thick that he was almost afraid Dean could see it.

Dean yanked open the window shutters. "It's the middle of the day, dude."

Sam squinted at the intrusive light. "I was tired." He rubbed his eyes but could still feel Dean watching him.

"Bad dream?"

Sam sighed and hoped he didn't look guilty. "Sort of."

Dean was quiet for a second. "Did your dream have anything to do with the vision attack from this morning?"

"They weren't visions!"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Whoa, okay, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. What's crawled up your ass?"

Sam finally looked over at Dean, letting himself feel annoyed because it was better than feeling scared. "I told you they weren't visions, Dean. It was the ghost getting in my head and leaving a few unwelcome gifts, that's all."

"Okay, tough guy, they weren't visions, got it." Dean grabbed a couple of manila folders from his bag and tossed them onto the bed. "Well, are you going to tell me what these non-visions were about?"

Sam clenched his jaw and turned his back on Dean, pulling on his shoes. "I told you, nothing. Nothing that makes any sense, anyway."

"Your nothings are never nothing, Sam. They're always something. Big somethings. So you mind filling me in on whatever psychic mumbo jumbo's going on in that head of yours? I _know,_" he added when Sam opened his mouth to protest. "They're not visions, they're her mind games, they've got nothing to do with you apart from the fact that they're playing in your goddamn head. I got it, okay? Now spill." Dean crossed his arms and waited.

Sam sighed, leaning back against the headboard as his resolve fled. For the hundredth time, Sam's mind revisited the memory of his own voice shouting Dean's name. "Flashes. I saw flashes. They were going too fast for me to see them all, but I did see some blood hitting a floor, these blue symbols that I didn't recognize, someone else falling from a window, a wall of spears, a fire, I think, and…" Sam hesitated.

"And?"

Sam frowned. "Robert Frost." He hopped up and hurried over to the table where his laptop was sitting.

"Huh?" Dean said as Sam typed the name into the search tool. "The poet?"

"Yeah," Sam said, scanning the screen.

"Was he wearing tights?"

"He wasn't Shakespeare, Dean. And no, I didn't see him, but at the dorm I swear I heard a voice – that ghost – say, 'Tomorrow dead will come to stay' and then she said it again in my dream…" He trailed off, squinting at the screen. "Ah ha! I knew it sounded familiar! It's a line in one of his poems – 'A Disused Graveyard.'"

Dean pulled up a chair, smirking. "Well look at you, art history _and _poetry? Someone was trying hard to pick up chicks."

Sam snorted but his smile gave way to a frown and he turned to look at Dean. "Why would she quote Frost to me?"

Dean shrugged. "Showing off? Or, hey, maybe she used to be a student. You know, studied a bit of poetry in her day. Maybe the stress and competition got to her, so she offed herself."

"And now she's haunting the school, making other competitive students relive her death." Sam wanted to believe it, for it to be that simple, but he couldn't ignore the taunting discrepancy in that answer. "But you're not a student, Dean. Not even close. So why would she appear in front of you like that?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe she sees my enormous potential and wants to make sure I never enroll and give her a run for her money…Hey, think the dead still have to pay off their student loans?"

Sam ignored Dean's remark. "Maybe it's just her way of telling us to leave her dorm. Maybe that's the link…Sherrie, the other victims, maybe the ghost just didn't like them entering her room."

Dean shook his head. "Nope. I've already found the link. All the jumpers had the ink treatment." He walked over to the bed and scooped up the manila folders. He tossed them open in front of Sam, revealing large, glossy photographs of the first few victims. Each had a spearhead tattoo.

Sam slowly picked up the photos, looking at each one with a growing sense of dread. He didn't know where the feeling was coming from, but past experiences taught him to listen to it. "Where'd you get these?"

"From the coroner's office. It's amazing how many people snap to attention with a flash of these pearly whites. And, you know, a flash of a fake badge helps too."

Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair. "This doesn't make sense," he muttered. He swiveled back to the computer and accessed the college's school paper archives. "Suicides on campus are a big deal, right?" He typed 'suicide' in the search bar and pressed enter. "So, if we're right, if she's a past student, the paper will have mentioned her death." Only three articles popped up, each victim's name matching the ones on the manila folders that Dean had stolen. "Dammit!" Sam shut the laptop. "We're back to square one."

* * *

Dean watched Sam wearily. He wasn't used to seeing Sam so frustrated. It cemented his suspicion that Sam wasn't telling him something. "Dude, chill."

Sam straightened and looked at Dean incredulously. "Chill?"

"Yeah, as in cut the drama. We'll figure it out. What's wrong with you? We've seen worse than a ghost that gives free tattoos and pushes overachievers out of windows."

Sam continued to stare at Dean. "The ghost appeared in front of you, Dean! _Chose _to appear in front of _you_ and did god knows what to make you drop your gun and walk half way across the room like you were a goddamn puppet or something. If I hadn't barged in when I had, who knows what would have happened."

"What do you think, Sam? That if you hadn't run in screaming my name like an amateur she'd have pulled my puppet strings and made me dance?"

Sam shook his head and pushed away from the desk. "How can you be so calm about this?"

"Have you lost it? A ghost that haunts dorms and doesn't try to rip out my entrails on sight aint all that scary." Sam just shook his head and continued to pace. "You think I haven't considered that maybe she twitched her nose and sent me awake-walking across the room to toss me out that window? You think you're the only one doing all the thinking while I'm just, what, the muscle?"

Sam glanced at him but said nothing.

"I don't fit the victim profile," Dean continued now that Sam was listening. "I'm not a college geek and I'm yet to wake up from a night out with any mysterious tattoos. But, you know, even if she had tried to chuck me out that window, when the hell isn't some dead thing trying to kill us? We _always_ make it out. This is our _job. _Electricians don't blow themselves up on faulty wires; we don't get pushed out of windows by ghosts." He turned away from Sam and opened the laptop to start browsing through the local newspapers.

Sam stopped pacing. "Our job?"

Dean curled his fingers into fists under the desk, realizing his plan to frustrate Sam into revealing whatever he was hiding was about to backfire. "Yeah, our job," he spat, unwilling to back down.

"Our job is to find the thing that killed mom and Jess! Our job is to end this fucking nightmare and get on with life. The rest, these hunts? These aren't our job, Dean. They don't come with a rulebook. They're dangerous and I don't have enough fingers or toes to count the number of times they've almost killed us. These aren't jobs, they're risks, and this time it's even more dangerous because nothing's making any sense."

Dean's eyes hardened for a second. "Sure it is. The dead girl's a bad guy; we kill bad guys. Then we hang up our hats and have a drink. Or brood, guess it depends which Winchester we're talking about."

Sam grabbed the chair across from Dean and plunked back down.

"Dean, the EMF and ITS weren't reading any supernatural activity."

"They're broken."

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. "Fine. They're broken. But why the hell would a spirit reenact suicides at a school she never committed suicide in?"

"Technicalities, Sam," Dean answered in a calm, even tone. He knew it pissed Sam off.

"And why would she appear in front of you, someone who doesn't even attend that school?"

"Because she wants to spend eternity with me. How the hell do I know! Logic isn't exactly the dead's strong point. It's not up to me to psych 101 them; I just send them back to hell. But you know what might help me figure this whole thing out?" Dean leaned close, trying his best to keep the anger – and yeah, the hurt too – from his voice. "Tell me whatever it is making you so goddamn moody. Tell me what the fuck you're hiding."

Sam looked like he'd been slapped and his anger seemed to drain. He opened his mouth to answer, but words took a few seconds to follow. "I…I mean…nothing…it's what I said…"

Dean laughed hollowly, leaning back in the chair. "Right, nothing, of course. Man, you and dad, always this need-to-know crap. Well, guess what? I need to know! It's my job to know what I'm getting into. Yes, my _job. _You may have an apple-pie life waiting for you after all this but I have a responsibility."

Sam seemed to soften, though maybe it was pity. Sam didn't get it. He never really had, and Dean doubted if he ever would. It's not like the boy didn't try to understand him, but no matter how much he and Sam went through together, no matter how many spirits and demons they faced and survived, there was always a gap that neither could fill without getting into an argument.

"To what? Once we kill the demon, to what, Dean?"

Dean was quiet for second, annoyed that he'd let the conversation slide into this terrain. "To the knowledge of what's out there. Unlike you, I can't ignore it." How could he ignore it? It was something that had followed him around since he was four. Something that had cut into his life and buried itself there the instant he glimpsed his mother's burning nightgown. It was because of this knowledge that he saw every person he met as a potential victim, someone not to befriend but to save. Normality had been ripped from his vocabulary the moment his dad handed him Sam's life and his mission. Dean had accepted that and it was okay because he had John and Sam right there with him. But then Sam chose to chase normality and John disappeared and Dean was left to face the things out there alone. No, Dean couldn't ignore it; he was scared to even try.

Dean sprung up and grabbed his bag, stuffing in his clothes.

Sam rubbed his eyes, looking tired. "What are you doing?"

"Packing," Dean grunted, not looking at Sam. "You should be too."

"Why?"

Dean picked up the envelope from his bag and tossed it to Sam. "We're moving."

Sam caught the envelope and pulled out two laminated cards. "Fake student IDs?"

"They're as good as real. Got us a dorm and everything. If the ghost is haunting the college, that's where we need to be."

Sam read the names on the cards. "Dean Barry. Sam Chester."

"We're cousins," Dean said, back still turned to Sam.

"Why not brothers?" Sam asked.

Dean shot him a look. "Two brothers living and going to school together? That's just weird, dude."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Uh, Dean? We just spent the last year in a car together."

"So?"

Sam sighed. "Nothing."

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the sound of drawers opening and closing as they packed. "You should dye your hair red," Dean said after a minute. Sam glanced over from where he was packing the laptop. "Make us look less related. I think you could pull off the Ronald McDonald look – you've already got the gawky, clown thing going on."

Sam scoffed. Dean grinned slightly and hoisted his duffel onto his shoulder. "Hurry up and pack already," he said. "Don't make me honk at you."

* * *

Dean closed the motel door on Sam's chuckle, oddly proud of himself for managing to break the ice between them. Again. He was becoming an expert.

He opened the Impala's back door, chucked his bag inside and hopped into the front seat, turning on the ignition so that he could listen to some music. As he bent to turn up the radio, Dean caught his reflection in the side view mirror and did a double take. For a second he swore that the person staring back was a version of himself with hollow eyes and sunken skin. Dean frowned and adjusted the mirror. The reflection was his own again. Dean sighed – Sam's paranoia was rubbing off on him. "Great, just what I need."

* * *

"This room is frickin' tiny!" Dean exclaimed after tossing his duffel bag on the floor and then realizing he needed to step over it to get to the bed.

Sam smiled ruefully. "Welcome to higher education." He let his bag slide off his shoulder and onto the desk chair. He sat on the bed, testing it out, and looked around the small room.

"Sam," Dean said slowly, also looking around. "Where's the TV?"

Sam looked almost apologetic. Almost.

"You're kidding me," Dean said. "You're not kidding me? Oh, Jesus, no wonder they're jumping." Dean sighed and started pulling out supplies, tossing them into the desk drawers for easy access. "Let's just get this over with; I already miss sleeping in my car."

Sam wasn't listening – he was squinting at the room's window.

"Sam," Dean said, watching his brother walk over to the window. "What is it?" Dean took the two steps it required to get to the window as Sam sighed and unlatched it, sliding it open.

"There's no way the victims could have been pushed." Sam pressed his fingers against the screen, testing it. "Someone would've had to slide open the window and pop out this screen first."

Dean tested the screen himself, not trusting Sam's strength. He frowned. Sam was right. "So, what? They _did_ jump?"

"Or they were forced out some other way."

Dean frowned. "The roommate, she said Sherrie was acting all out of it this morning."

"After coming back from her morning class," Sam finished. Sam grabbed the laptop and turned it on while Dean fished out the manila folders containing the photographs of the other two victims from his bag.

"Okay," Sam said, sitting cross-legged on his bed with the computer on his lap. "I've accessed Sherrie's class schedule."

"Can you do that?" Dean asked.

Sam cleared his throat. "Well, _I _can."

Dean smirked. "Nerd Boy spends a year with me and he's using his geek powers to be all unlawful. A brother couldn't be prouder."

Sam rolled his eyes and continued to search through the university's records. "So the class she was enrolled in for this morning was something called Contemporary Cultural Studies."

Dean looked at the names on the manila folders. "Check if a Katie Romani and Cam Spencer were also in that class."

Sam checked. He smiled and glanced up at Dean. "They were."

"Alright, we're onto something. Hey, what did the roommate say? That all the jumpers were competitive and shit, right? And they all came from this one class. So, maybe it isn't a haunting at all."

Sam nodded. "Maybe someone's getting rid of the competition. But how's the ghost, or whatever the hell she is, come into it?"

"Might be she's not a ghost. If the victims are all coming back from that class dazed and suicidal, then something's happening in there. A spell maybe? Spells, incantations and all that, they can have physical manifestations. Maybe she's it. It would explain why the EMF and ITS read zip. And why you found me minus one gun after my little chat with her."

Sam didn't look convinced. "But…okay, even if the tattoos are a mark of a spell or a way to brand the next victim, why would this student target you? You've never picked up a book in your life."

"Hey, give me some credit. I read The Famous Five once. Those kids get up to some crazy shit. "

"And why a spearhead tattoo, of all things?" Sam continued.

"Maybe the guy's drawing on a Native American's angry spirit."

Sam raised his eyebrow.

"What?" Dean shrugged. "It happened on Buffy."

A smile touched Sam's lips. "I don't think so."

Dean threw his hands up. "Well, man, I don't know. Would you stop being the boring exposition guy? One bridge at a time.Tomorrow we crash the lecture, listen real hard and find the person whispering in Latin, or Ancient Greek, or Parseltongue, or whatever the hell type of spell thing they're doing. Then we'll 'good cop bad cop' whoever it is, he'll spill his great evil scheme and tell us he would've gotten away with it too if it weren't for us, and then we'll threaten to chop off his balls if he doesn't stop taking the death and mayhem shortcut to better grades. Lectures are quiet, right?"

Sam's mind flashed back to the loud whispers and occasional bursts of laughter that permeated his lectures. "Sometimes?"

"We'll listen _really_ hard then." He flopped onto the bed and turned his head to look at Sam. "So, what do you guys do for fun around here?"

"Sleep," Sam answered, pulling of his shoes and letting them drop to the ground.

"Are you kidding me? It's barely dark!"

Sam smiled. "The lecture starts at eight."

Dean's jaw slackened. "What the hell kind of torture is that? No wonder kids are turning into psycho murderers." Dean sighed and scooted across the bed to flick off the lights. This place was so damn small he could reach the switch without getting off the bed. "College is more fun in movies."

They lay quietly for a few minutes, the moonlight shining through the window and giving the room a silver glow. It was quiet, more than any motel. Even though Dean could hear the faint sounds of doors opening and closing and someone playing music, he almost missed the sound of passing traffic and screaming couples in adjacent rooms. He wasn't used to this type of quiet; it was so still.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?" Dean turned his head to look at Sam but could only make out a dark lump. He heard Sam take a deep breath.

"I think we have ten days to work this out. Then something worse is going to happen."

The bedsprings creaked as Dean sat up and reached for the lamp. A bright orange light hit Sam's face and illuminated Dean's angry one. "Why do you think that?" he asked, his voice hard and accusing.

Sam pulled himself into a sitting position and ran a hand over his face. "I dreamt it," he answered quietly. "I saw that girl from the dorm counting down. It wasn't a premonition or anything like that, just a dream, but…it just…it just felt kind of important, you know?"

Dean was quiet for a second, feeling a pinch of hurt that Sam hadn't told him earlier. "Any other secrets you got stashed away that you feel like sharing?"

Dean swore he saw Sam shudder.

"I'm not hiding anything."

Dean nodded. A part of him wanted to tell Sam that he believed him, that he was sure whatever Sam was hiding was for a good reason, but a bigger part of him wanted to slap his brother and yell that secrets never did them any good. They were meant to be a team, Starsky and fucking Hutch. "Don't know how that lawyer thing would have worked out because you're a shitty liar, Sam." Annoyed at Sam, but more annoyed at himself for snapping, Dean shut off the lamp and flopped back down. Sam reached over and switched it back on, his expression matching Dean's angry one.

"Why can't you just let this drop?!"

Dean pulled himself back into a sitting position and sighed. "Fine, it's dropped."

"Just this once, trust me when I tell you there's nothing to tell!"

"It's _dropped_, Sammy, like a frickin' anvil, it's dropped, okay?"

Breathing deeply, Sam watched Dean, waiting for the catch. "You're letting this go?"

"Sure. If you want to keep secrets and play the emo game, be my guest. Just don't ask for my help when a Bloody Mary comes scratching at your mirror."

Dean instantly hated himself for hitting so hard. And that one had hit. Like a shot to the heart, that had hit. Sam never dreamt that keeping his life and nightmares secret from Jessica would end in her death; Dean _knew_ how guilty Sam felt about all that. He _knew. _"Sammy, man, I didn't mean it like that -"

"No, that's fine, Dean," Sam interrupted. "'Cause you know what? I wouldn't ask for it anyway. I don't _need _your help, never have. I was doing just fine without you. _You're _the one that had to drag me away to a find a man that obviously didn't want to be found!"

Dean took the hit, knowing he'd thrown the first punch. "Look, princess, we're going to wake up your friends. No partying, booze, or yelling at your brother past 10 PM."

Sam sprang from his bed and grabbed the pillow. "I'm sleeping in the common room."

"Does this mean we're breaking up?" Dean called after him. His comment was met with a slammed door. Dean forced himself to chuckle, to settle back in the pillows and push aside the hurt and anger and guilt, and to push aside the niggling fear trying to tell him that something was wrong with this whole damn hunt. He pushed it all aside because that's what he always did.

* * *

Dean pulled the sheets closer and buried his head into the pillow, trying to block out the sound of tapping intruding on his sleep, but it continued until it flung sleep from him like a bed sheet. Dean groaned and grabbed for his phone. 3 AM! "Yeah, now you decide to come back," Dean muttered, contemplating leaving his brother outside all night. Sighing, Dean forced himself up and trudged to the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. "Goddamn it, Sam, hissy fits have expiry…" But it wasn't Sam. He found himself staring at a girl with a slack jaw, dead eyes and skin so pale it almost glowed. Before Dean even had a chance to gasp, she flicked her wrist and he found himself flying across the room. He collided with the wall before crashing to the ground. He tried to get up, to get to his weapons and shout for Sam, but found all he could do was watch from the floor as she floated inside, the door shutting behind her. An energy, thick like fog, curled around the room and he knew, somehow knew with more certainty than he thought capable, that noise wouldn't penetrate beyond it. This dorm would become his coffin.

He forced himself to blink past the fog, to lift his hands and curl his fingers around the drawer handle and pull it open. But his movements were slow, so slow, like he was underwater or stuck in a dream, and before he even had a chance to grab a weapon, she flickered out of sight and reappeared crouched in front of him. Her lips moved. That same voice, those same words, floated out and hit him with such force, so much hate, that it was almost like a physical slap. _I know what you did. _

She pressed her hand to his arm. A feeling like fire engulfed him, like a thousand needles springing from her hand and rendering his arm a useless, burning limb. Dean screamed.

Then her fingers were around his neck and squeezing, squeezing so hard it was only a second before his voice left him and his vision crumbled into spots. Her fingers squeezed and he felt his windpipe crushing, felt his eyes bulge, felt his head pounding from the lack of air. His heart pounding, he forced himself to move, to defend. He grabbed her wrists, surprised to find them solid. He scratched and pulled and tugged but her grip only tightened. "Get off me, bitch," he tried to gasp out, but he had no breath left to use.

To his complete surprise, though, she let go and backed up a few feet, the debilitating feeling of being too slow, of being stuck in a dream, following her, unraveling itself from Dean so that he could move again, breathe again. He sucked in the air, almost choking in his haste get as much as his lungs allowed, but not caring because he could breathe again.

_Dean…_

His head snapped up at the sound of his name floating from her lips.

_I know what you did and I won't let you…_

Dean ignored his protesting lungs and lunged for a weapon. She was too quick. Her eyes grew black and like she was taking a long, deep breath, she pulled in the lingering energy that had bound Dean like a thick fog and then, with a slow smile, she unleashed it so that it collided with Dean, sunk into and through him like a knife slicing into his skin.

Dean screamed and fell backwards, screamed and hit the ground, screamed and felt his body arch as a voice – her voice! – tore into his head: a loud long wail that grew more intense with every passing second, that tore through his body until he swore he was on fire, until he swore he could taste his own blood and see it gather in his eyes.

_This is too important for you two to screw up._ The voice was in his head! A loud boom that reverberated through his body and for a second Dean thought he was standing beneath a large church bell as it chimed, the echoes hitting harder than the initial tolls.

_This is too important for you two to screw up…_For you two…us two…Sam!

Dean clawed at the carpet, dragging himself to his knees and forcing himself forward. He ignored everything and reached for the drawer, reached for a weapon, a goddamn box of bullets to chuck at her, anything! But hope crumpled with his body as he was lifted and tossed through the air.

He hit the window, colliding with such force that he didn't feel himself slump to the ground, didn't notice the glass sprinkle him like snow, didn't realize that his hands were clawing at his own chest or that his body was curling in on itself. All he could focus on was his heart's frantic beats and the vague sense of panic he felt as those beats slowed down.

"Sammy," he tried to call out, but darkness found him first.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Sam's eyes snapped open. He tried to pull himself up but his hand slipped on the edge of the cushion and only instincts kept him from tumbling off the couch and landing in an embarrassing heap. That's when he remembered where he was - sleeping in the common room, using the couch as a makeshift bed. Alone out here while Dean was alone in there.

Something had woken him. Sam's eyes slid toward the bedroom door and he quieted his breath, listening. There were no sounds of struggle or movement or anything to indicate trouble.

Sam removed the jacket he'd been using as a blanket and swung his legs over the side of the couch. Why did he feel as if he needed to be somewhere or that he was forgetting something? Sam looked around the small room, eyes instantly traveling to each shadow that slanting across the floor. They hid nothing but dust balls.

Another noise. Sam tensed. It sounded like someone laughing. He walked over to the window and tried to squint through the shadows that blanketed the street. In the distance was a small group of students who, if their swaying steps were anything to judge by, were coming back from a night out. That's what woke him. It must have been.

Sam turned from the window to look again at the bedroom door. It stood closed, a white rectangular slab that almost taunted with the question of what it hid. Realizing that regarding a door as taunting was a sign that he was either overtired or going crazy, Sam nonetheless found himself wishing that Dean snored.

Sam pushed away from the window and walked to the door, the vague beginnings of panic weaving through his stomach. He knocked. "Dean?" No answer. Sam called a little louder, "Dean?" Still nothing. The panic began to creep into Sam's chest – Dean rarely slept through any noise, let alone his own brother calling for him. He rapped against the door, not caring if he woke up the whole damn floor: "Dean! I swear to god you better not be in trouble, and you better not be ignoring me." He tried to push open the door, but an invisible force slammed it back shut. Sam frowned. He pushed it open again, harder this time, but again it slammed shut. Sam's eyes widened and the panic exploded. "No! Dean!" He grabbed the knob with both hands and leaned with his entire weight, muscles straining and bare feet sliding on the carpet as he pushed. It wouldn't budge. "No!" He rammed his shoulder into the door, again and again, ears peeled for that fatal sound of a body – Dean's body – smacking the ground outside.

He beat his shoulder against the door until the sound started to remind him of the solemn beats counting down in his dream. He pushed away from the door, running his hands through his hair. He scanned the room for something to force the door open. He turned in circles, the panic growing each time the couches and desks and other doors whipped past his vision. There was nothing here to use! All his weapons were in that room. "Dammit!" Trust Dean to get in trouble right after an argument!

Sam was annoyed at himself, annoyed at Dean—_scared _for Dean—annoyed at that fucking girl and his fucking dreams and at everything that had led to him being stuck out here while Dean was stuck in there. He let the frustration build, let it feed off his panic until it eclipsed reason and he found himself backing up, eyes trained on that stupid, taunting door. Then he charged, rushing for it and turning at the last second so that his shoulder collided with the door. It sprang open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Sam tumbled inside, arms flailing to keep his balance. He skidded to a stop, shocked by the sight of the girl from that morning standing right in front of him. She was staring with an expression that almost matched his own; he guessed she hadn't expected him to break through. Then Sam noticed the cracked wall and shattered window. His eyes slid toward the ground and everything froze at the sight of Dean's crumpled body.

"Dean!" he tried to shout, but the word was caught in his throat as the girl flicked her wrist, slamming the door shut and flinging Sam against it. Then she was in front of him, and Sam found that his arms and legs wouldn't move.

"What did you do to him?" Sam spat, growing more worried with every second that Dean just lay there, unmoving. She ignored his question, reaching up and softly trailing her fingers over his collarbone. Sam jerked back from her touch. Her fingers weren't cold like he'd expected; they were warm and solid. "What the hell are you?" Sam asked, wanting nothing more than to push her away and help Dean. His movements were too slow, though, like his body was lost in a trance that his mind was excluded from.

She cocked her head and watched him, her dark eyes boring into his. Then she smiled. A slow, cold smile like the one in his dream. Her lips parted and her voice floated toward him. _You're cute…_Then she was gone, her laugh bouncing off the walls before it too disappeared.

Like an invisible weight lifting from his shoulders, Sam found he could move again. He stumbled to Dean's side. "Dean?" Sam reached out and shook Dean's shoulder. Some shards of glass fell from him with the movement, but Dean remained unresponsive. "Dean? Come on, man." Sam hated the way his voice caught with tears he wouldn't let fall: you cried for the dead and Sam wasn't ready to do that yet. Not again. He started to brush off the remaining bits of glass, worried they might cut Dean, but his hand found something warm and sticky instead.

Sam sprung up to switch on the lights. He gasped. Blood covered his hand. Sam's gaze flung back to his brother and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out – the back of Dean's head, where he'd hit the window, was covered in blood. More worrying, though, was the blood that ran from Dean's eyes like tears, leaving red trails down his cheeks. Sam quickly returned to Dean's side and shook his shoulder, harder this time. "Fuck, Dean, come on. Just open your eyes. Please!"

Sam ran a hand through his hair, the one not covered in his brother's blood, and tried to swallow the panic. Dean was hurt, he was injured, but that didn't mean he was dead; it didn't mean Sam was allowed to break down and forget his training. What was the first thing you did when someone was hurt? Check for a pulse. Dammit! Why hadn't he done that yet? He pressed his fingers against Dean's neck and held his breath. Then he felt it. A beat. A pulse. Dean was alive. Sam let the relief wash through him before springing into action. Phone, he needed to find the cell phone and call for help.

A low groan traveled up from the floor and Sam's attention whipped back to Dean. "Dean?" Dean's eyes fluttered open and he squinted up at Sam, looking confused. "Hey," Sam said gently, a smile breaking through the concern. "Are you okay?"

Dean continued to frown at him. "You're not a hot blonde."

Sam snorted, smile widening. "No, can't say I am."

Dean groaned again and with slow, careful movements, pulled himself into a sitting position. "Which means I didn't just wake up with a massive hangover." He winced and reached for his head. Sam stopped him.

"No, but you did wake up with a massive bump. Be careful."

Dean glanced at Sam and sighed. He hesitantly touched the back of his head, wincing as his fingers made contact. He glanced at the shattered glass sprinkled all over him and the floor and then carefully turned to look up at the broken window. "That's just great," he muttered. "Between people being pushed out and me being thrown in into 'em, I'm going to develop a window phobia."

"So you remember what happened?" Sam asked.

Still wincing, Dean pointed at the door, then to the opposite wall and then to the window. "Dead chick, me thrown into wall, thrown into window, then waking up to your ugly mug. Yeah, I remember."

"Okay, good, I'll be back in a second, don't try to move." Sam knew he needed to get a wet cloth for Dean's head, but he hesitated at the door. Dean had a deep frown etched in his face and was already trying to get up off the floor despite Sam's warning. Sam smiled and made sure to push the door wide open before hurrying out to get the cloth.

* * *

Dean pulled himself onto the bed and waited until Sam disappeared from sight before shutting his eyes and slumping forward. He was too sore and tired to support his own weight, especially now that his head felt ten times larger. He could almost feel that scream still echoing through his skull. He rubbed his hands over his face to try to block out the memory, but felt something slick and sticky meet his fingers. Frowning, Dean forced himself off the bed. He looked at his reflection in the small mirror attached to the outside of the closet door. His frown deepened: there was blood on his face. He reached up with his thumb to try and wipe it away, but the blood had already dried. Realizing why his mouth tasted like copper, Dean bared his teeth. He knew what to expect, but it still startled him to find a bloodied grin staring back at him. "Well, that's attractive," he muttered. 

"She really did a number on you," Sam said, coming back into the room with a damp cloth. He reached out to press it against Dean's head, but Dean flinched and moved away.

"Dude, ow." He grabbed the cloth from Sam and gingerly pressed it against the back of his head. The movement pinched his shoulder and he glanced at it absently. His eyes widened. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled, startling Sam. He rolled up his sleeve, exposing his arm. "Son of a bitch!"

On his upper arm, the skin around it bright red and swollen, sat a glistening tattoo of a spearhead.

"Oh, that's just swell. She fucking tattooed me!"

"Jesus," Sam said. "It's not just a tattoo…She branded you."

Dean tried to smudge the mark, but the action only stung his shoulder more. Then Sam's words sunk in and his head snapped up. "She what? Like a cow?"

"Uh…" Sam frowned. "I guess."

"What's she want to do, make boots out of me?" Dean sighed and slid back on the bed, his movements feeling ridiculously slow and sluggish. "This is going to be one of those hunts where I get beat to hell, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, sitting across from Dean and handing him the cloth he'd dropt.

Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Dean shifted slightly to try and hide his injuries. "Window Bitch is after me _specifically_," Dean answered, pressing the cloth against his head again before pulling it away to check how much blood came with it. Thankfully, not as much as he'd expected with his head pounding like it was. He pressed it back against the gash anyway. "I don't think she just thought I'd look good in a tattoo, or, you know, splattered on the ground. The chick hates my guts."

Sam frowned. "Why?"

"She keeps saying she knows what I did and she won't let me do it." Off Sam's look, Dean threw up the hand not holding the cloth. "I know! Someone needs to tell her that what's done is done and you can't stop someone from doing it if it's already been done." Dean frowned, thinking over what he'd just said. "Or that she sucks at grammar."

Sam's frown deepened. "Okay, so how's this fit into what we already know?"

"That competitive students from the same class are committing suicide."

"Okay, so…it doesn't. Do you know what you did?"

"Nothing! Kill her kind for a living? How the hell am I supposed to know. I was kinda too busy getting strangled to ask."

Sam's eyes slid to Dean's neck. "Jesus, Dean." Sam reached out to feel the welts, but Dean pushed his hand away.

"Dude!"

Sam smirked. "Are you okay?" he asked, still smiling.

"I'm breathing, aren't I?" Dean attempted to glare at Sam while adjusting his shirt so that it hid the marks. "She's after you too, you know," he added, hoping the remark would startle Sam enough to make him stop staring at his injuries. "It's not just a one brother deal. She said we were screwing up her plans, or something. Both of us. You and I together."

It worked. Sam frowned. "I'm starting to feel like a ghost _detective_. Why can't ghosts just fly around rattling chains like they're supposed to?"

"Too clichéd." Dean carefully removed the cloth from his head and tossed it on the bedside table. The pounding in his head was finally beginning to recede, but his newly tattooed skin pinched with every movement. He glared at the black spearhead marring his skin. "Did Dead Bitch say anything interesting while you were rescuing my ass?" Dean cringed. "God, it's a sad day in Dean Land when I'm playing the damsel in distress. _You're _supposed to be Rapunzel."

Sam looked reluctant. "Um, yeah, she did say something actually. She said that I was cute."

Dean raised his eyebrows, forgetting his injuries as a grin spread onto his face. "Come again?"

"Dean."

"No, no," Dean said, cupping his ear and leaning forward. "Seriously, didn't catch it, what did she say?"

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "She said, 'you're cute' and then disappeared."

"That's weird," Dean said.

"I know, not usual ghost behaviour."

"No, I mean usually the ladies are all over _me._ If it's you the ghost's crushing on, I'm willing to admit there's something not so normal about this hunt."

"She wasn't crushing on me!" His eyes betrayed his amusement.

"Don't sell yourself short, Sammy, the dead chick thinks you're cute. Who wouldn't with those puppy dog eyes." Dean reached out to tousle Sam's hair.

Sam laughed and pushed Dean's hand away. "You're an ass."

"But it's your ass she's pining over."

"So you _are _willing to admit there's something…off…about this case?" Sam asked, ignoring Dean's remark.

Dean shrugged. "Sure. I mean, you get strangled, I get flung. It's how it works. When I start getting the neck treatment too, you know something's not right."

Sam smirked. "Your logic is unique, Dean."

"I'm all about the uniqueness."

"And arrogance."

Dean shrugged. What could he say? Noticing a red light from the corner of his eye, Dean turned to find his cell peeking out from under Sam's bed. Uncurling his legs and carefully stepping over the shards of glass sprinkled across the carpet, Dean scooped up the phone and checked the time. "We have to be in class in a few hours. Great."

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Hell yeah," Dean answered, setting the phone down on the bedside table. "Dude, this is our only lead. I'm willing to endure some boring professor talking about boring shit if it means I get to kick some ass afterwards." He ran a hand across his face and looked at the blood that came off on his fingers. "I'm taking a shower; I look like the clown of death."

Sam instantly stood, his face a mix of worry and guilt. Dean sighed and waited for it.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Taking a shower?"

"You'll be alone. You could get attacked again."

"Dude, you are not keeping me company while I _shower._ That is beyond creepy."

Sam gave Dean a dry look. "That isn't what I meant." He walked over to his bed and from beneath it pulled out a duffle bag. He rummaged through the clothes piled on top to conceal the artillery and pulled out a canister of salt, chucking it at Dean who caught it with one hand. "Make sure you salt the whole bathroom, okay? And…" He disappeared under the bed again, surfacing with a large, long sports bag and lifting it carefully onto the bed. He unzipped it and plunged a hand inside, holding the bag taut with the other, yanking until a shotgun emerged. He gave it to Dean.

Dean looked from the canister in one hand to the shotgun he held upright in the other. "Thanks, Mary Poppins."

Sam grinned, tossing the bag back under the bed. "I didn't have time to pack properly. I found this old gym bag and just squeezed the shotgun in there. Be careful, Dean. I mean it."

Dean smiled tightly. "Way to freak out a guy before showering." Eying the salt and weapon, Dean turned and started down the hall toward the bathrooms. He was just glad it was the middle of the night; he had no idea how he'd explain away the salt and gun as a showering habit

* * *

Sam watched from the door as Dean disappeared down the hall and into the bathroom. He was worried about the way Dean was rubbing his chest and taking longer, slower breaths than usual.

He'd be okay, though: Dean was a good hunter and rock salt warded off most supernatural beings. He'd be okay.

Sam let himself slide down the doorframe, releasing a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He sat still for a second, watching the closed bathroom door. Then he knocked his head against the frame in frustration. Why the hell did he have just left Dean alone in that room? They knew this place was bad news and that the girl had already come to Dean once before. Jesus, it could have killed him! _Would _have killed him had Sam been a heavier sleeper. How could he be so stupid. Now Dean was branded, his brother was fucking branded for execution because Sam had left him alone. He'd had that vision of Dean in trouble – he'd fucking heard his own voice screaming Dean's name yet he still left. Because of what? A fight? A stupid, childish fight? He had just assumed that since he was only a room over that his instincts would keep his ears peeled for trouble. Only one fucking white door had separated them and they'd both survived much longer distances.

Or maybe he'd just assumed he was the one Dean needed protection from. Isn't that what his dreams were trying to tell him? Sam sighed and continued to watch the bathroom door. That dream was the reason Sam had grown so agitated and careless in the first place. The reason he'd left Dean alone. Out of guilt or fear or anger, it didn't matter; he'd left Dean alone and Dean had almost died. Sam's hands were still shaking and he didn't think his mind would ever erase that image of Dean crumpled on the floor. At least Sam now knew with absolute certainty that his dream was wrong. Or a trick. He'd never do anything to replicate that image. Never.

* * *

Dean wiped the steam from the mirror and glanced at his shoulder and the unwanted tattoo that sat there. "A spear, of all things," he muttered, shrugging his shirt back on. The bathroom was quiet, an echoing sort of quiet that seemed to have snuck up on Dean after he'd shut off the shower. He glanced at the salt circled around the room and then quickly checked under the sink to see if the gun was still propped there. You know, just to be safe. Dean glanced at himself, but the steam was already beginning to fog the mirror, distorting his image and making it shiver in and out, almost as if he himself were the ghost. 

Dean sighed heavily and leaned his weight against the sink, the cold ceramic beneath his hands reminding him of the cold that had run through his body as that thing screamed in his head. He shut his eyes and tried to stop his memory from swinging back to her hands around his neck and the realization that he might die before he could warn Sam. Though the pounding from his head kept bringing the memory forward, faster than he could banish it. Annoyed, Dean grabbed a few Ibuprofens and swallowed them whole, grabbing the gun and striding out of the bathroom. He paused at the door, looking at the ring of salt but deciding to leave it. Colleges had janitors for that stuff, right?

He froze as a breeze hit his neck. He whipped around with the gun raised, but only the bathroom, glistening with moisture, stared back. He cautiously lowered the gun and backed out, shutting the door behind him. If he attempted to separate the pounding in his head from the snoring and muffled voices inside the other dorms, maybe he'd hear someone laughing from behind the closed door. But Dean didn't try. Some things were better left in the dark.

* * *

Sam was sitting against their room's doorframe. Dean smirked as Sam scrambled up, eyes large with concern. "You reading me a bedtime story, too?" 

Sam grinned. "Hey, man, if you want me to."

"Shut up." Dean threw his wet towel at Sam.

Sam caught it and grimaced as water dripped down his arm. "You're even a messy showerer." He tossed the towel onto the back of a chair and followed Dean.

Dean flopped backwards onto his bed but cringed as the impact jostled his bruised body. "Dumb move." He pulled himself up and gingerly felt the back of his head. He rolled his shoulders to try and relieve some of the tension, the tattoo again catching his eye. "And I always wanted a mermaid," he muttered, "want to know what it'd do when I flexed?"

"No."

Dean smirked and glanced at the time on his phone. "Well, four hours is better than one. Hit the lights, Sammy."

Sam reached to turn them off but hesitated. He took a visible breath and scuffed the carpet with his toe. "Hey, Dean? I'm really sorry, man. I didn't mean what I said-"

"I know," Dean cut in. "Forget it, okay? You rescued my ass; we're even."

"But Dean, if I hadn't left you in there-"

"Dude," Dean cut off again. "I don't need a babysitter. Seriously, you gotta let it go: I'm getting these twisted visuals of you following me around everywhere like a freakin' six foot tall puppy dog."

Sam smiled slightly and nodded, turning off the light. "I'm just going to do a bit more research; I'll wake you before class." Sam grabbed the laptop and leaned against the headboard.

Dean sighed and watched as the blue light from the screen bathed Sam's face and deepened the lines already present. "Sammy, man, hit the sack. I don't want you to watch over me. I survived fine for those three years too, you know."

Sam's eyes flickered in Dean's direction. "I'm not tired."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever, dude." He rolled onto his side and pulled up the sheets. Though his body demanded sleep, Dean stayed awake for a while, listening to his brother clicking away, browsing for some answers or clues or whatever he was searching for. Dean wished he knew what to say to alleviate his brother's guilt. But, hell, he was never too great at convincing Sam of anything.

* * *

_Wake up…_

Dean startled awake. His breath was coming in cold bursts - the room as swathed in an icy chill thanks to the broken window. Dean frowned and listened: there was a scratching noise coming from somewhere, like branches against a window, only their room was on the twelfth floor. Dean turned his head slowly and looked at the window, or what remained of it. Floating on the other side of the glass, skin glowing in the moonlight, was that damn girl. Dean jumped up. She was scratching her nails against the window.

Kneeling on the bed, body tensed and breath coming quickly, Dean risked a glance at his brother, who had fallen asleep with the laptop still open. "Sam," Dean whispered, cautiously reaching for the shotgun placed beside his bed. "Sam," he whispered again. Watching the ghost to make sure she was still busy tracing whatever the hell she was tracing into the foggy pane, Dean slowly reached for his pillow and threw it at Sam. The pillow hit Sam's face and he snorted awake, the laptop falling to the ground with a loud thump.

Sam blinked. He frowned and looked down at the pillow lying next to the upturned laptop, then up at Dean. "What was that for?" He noticed the gun in Dean's hands and stood. Dean gestured at the window and Sam whipped around, gasping when he saw the girl. Her eyes swiveled toward his. She smiled and then vanished.

Dean waited a second before lowering the gun.

"That was weird," Sam said.

"Weird? Weird was the first thing that came to your mind, not creepy?"

"That too." Sam bent over to scoop up his pillow and laptop.

"Be less subtle next time," Dean said, lowering the gun next to his bed. "You scared her away before I could get in a shot."

Sam paused in his examination of the laptop. "_I _scared away the floating, glowing, controls with the power of her mind ghost?"

"Well, you made enough noise startle her."

Sam grabbed his pillow and flung it at Dean.

"Hey!" Dean objected, ducking out of its way.

"See? You try waking up quietly after having a pillow thrown at your face."

Dean chucked the pillow back at Sam. "You're such a grouch in the morning."

Sam half laughed, half sighed. He looked back at the window and paled, his gaze caught by whatever she'd traced into the condensation. Sam scooted closer for a better look.

"What'd she write?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't say anything. Dean frowned and checked it out for himself.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 0 0 0 0 0


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewing! You guys are my motivation. **  
**

**Chapter 4:**

Dean watched as a swarm of students flooded out from the lecture room while another swarm tried to maneuver and jostle their way in. The congestion in the doorway looked more dangerous than that freakin' ghost - he was surprised no one's eye had accidentally been jabbed out with a pen. He and Sam were standing near the back of the corridor, waiting in the hopes that some clue would reveal itself during the hour they had to sit and pretend to be bored students. Well, pretend to be students, at least; Dean was sure the bored part would come easily.

"Triple six often has satanic connotations, right?" Sam said, drawing Dean's attention back from the foreign stampede in front of him. "The number of the beast, the antichrist, stuff like that? Maybe that's what the six zeros were somehow meant to mean." He was referring to the numbers that the ghost had traced into the window pane mere hours ago.

Dean glanced at his brother and almost sighed. Sam's brow was furrowed and he had that distant look in his eyes: the boy was overanalyzing this number thing. "Then why wouldn't she just write triple six?" Dean asked. "You know what I think? It was a threat. In nine days time, she wants us six feet under."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "So the ghost has a sense of humor?"

"Hey, the ghost has a crush on you, anything's possible." Dean watched as the last few stragglers from the previous class squeezed their way out. Now free of obstruction, the crowd surged forward.

"She doesn't have a crush," Sam repeated for the umpteenth time. "It's called mocking."

Before Dean could respond, Sam moved forward and began weaving his way through the crowd. He seemed to know what he was doing, so Dean followed. Someone bumped into his shoulder where the tattoo still sat fresh, muttering a quick apology and disappearing into the crowd before Dean had a chance to see who it was. "More dangerous than a hunt," he muttered, taking the aisle two steps at a time and then squeezing passed the legs of seated students until he'd caught up with Sam, who was already shrugging off his jacket. "How are we meant to make a quick escape if we're sitting right in the middle of the freakin' row?" Dean asked, glancing around as the seats quickly filled. Everyone was far too loud and bubbly for this hour; Dean's head was sore enough without the added assault of hundreds of chatting students.

Sam smiled. "We don't. We stay and listen and try to work out if someone's using this class to target other students. One hour isn't going to kill you, Dean." Sam frowned, obviously realizing the irony, given the fate of the last three victims. "Or, you know, hopefully won't."

"Give me zombies any day," Dean sighed, slumping down on the seat and resting his feet on the chair in front. He shut his eyes, letting the buzzing already present in his head merge with the external sound of chatter to form a blanket around his head that cushioned against the steady, if faint, pounding still pulsating from the gash. He was saved from going to sleep there and then by a shadow falling across him and blocking the light that'd been dancing in front of his eyelids.

Dean reluctantly opened his eyes to find a tall blonde staring at him from the row in front. Dean grinned. "This college thing isn't so bad, after all." Instead of smiling back, she crossed her arms and pointedly looked at his feet resting on the back of her chair. The smile slid from Dean's face and a flush took its place. "Oh." Dean removed his feet and lifted himself up. He didn't even have to look at Sam to know he was laughing. Dean scowled. "Shut up." He waited until Sam's chuckling died down before glancing over.

Sam had pulled out a pen and notebook from his bag and had them rested on the writing ledge. Dean pointed to the spiral notebook. "You know we're not going to be sitting any exams, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "People have been dying right after sitting this class; I just want to make sure I don't miss anything."

Dean narrowed his eyes, noting the automatic way Sam positioned his pen above the page and the way he was looking around the lecture room with a small, almost content smile on his face.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged and let a mask of nonchalance slide onto his face. "Nothing."

Sam raised his eyebrows, obviously waiting for Dean to explain. "I haven't lost sight of why we're here, Dean. Just because I went to college once doesn't mean you can throw me in one and I'll suddenly revert to school mode and forget the hunt."

"No, I know," Dean said, annoyed that Sam had read his thoughts so easily. "You'll just dorkify it". Satisfied by the sigh that left his brother's lips, Dean turned his attention to the front of the lecture as the lights dimmed and an older man with graying hair stepped up to the podium. But Dean still couldn't help noticing the way Sam uncapped his pen and leaned forward at almost the exact time that everyone else did. He couldn't help noticing the way Sam's messy hairdo seemed to be the style of choice, or the way his brother automatically smiled at the person next to him and moved his elbow to offer more room, or the way he chuckled at the lecturer's opening line and scribbled down the guy's name without having to glance at the notebook. Dean may have been acting, pretending to be a student to complete a hunt, but Sam had lived this life once and wanted to live it again. This wasn't just a job for Sam, it was his future and past - a world that Dean had intruded on once and now couldn't help feeling like the intruder again. Sam wasn't on a hunt, he was home.

Dean rolled his eyes, safe in the knowledge that it was dark and Sam wouldn't notice. _Melodramatic, much?_ his mind berated, ignoring the pang in his chest. Dean slid down until his knees hit the chair in front of him. Annoyed at how small the freakin' space was and at how the lecturer's voice droned and at just about everything else to do with this damn hunt, Dean forced his breath to even out and suppressed the lecturer's voice. He picked a spot on the carpet and let his sight rest there while his hearing sharpened, trying to pick up on anything that might indicate the use of a spell: something was happening to victims in this lecture, and Dean was certain that the ghost was being controlled by another student. It was the only thing that made sense.

Dean listened as paper rustled and pens scratched, as coughs burst through the thin veil of quiet before dispersing and giving way to the occasional throat clearing. Dean listened as chairs squeaked and as chuckles followed the pauses the lecturer left after whatever highfalutin joke he'd made. Dean listened as from under the veil of attention, a breeze of whispers and chatter and quiet laughter flowed through the lecture in indiscernible waves. Indiscernible, at least, to those not listening for it.

Dean focused in on a voice near the back and shrunk further into his chair. He didn't turn to see who it was, but the voice sounded gravelly and possibly chant-y. Possibly. The conversation in the seats directly behind him was blocking any attempt to interpret what the gravelly voice was saying. Dean sighed and tried to ignore the conversation, but it kept intruding like annoying gunfire blocking his path to the enemy.

"So did you ask her?"

"By ask her, you mean…?"

"Come one, Joey, tell me what happened."

"Um, I said hi."

"And then?"

"I walked away."

"Dude!"

"It's not my fault."

"Whose fault is it then?"

"Hers. No, mine, no I don't know! She just looked really nice, you know, and I kinda freaked out. A little. I just…yeah, I don't know."

Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face. He was not in the mood to hear about some chump's lack of a love life.

"You're gonna die alone, man, I'm telling ya."

"You're real supportive, Chris, you know that?"

"Grow a pair, it's the best advice a guy can give."

"Maybe after I grow some fucking facial hair. She's out of my league, okay? Let's just drop it."

Dean turned in his chair, torn between feeling annoyed and incredulous. "Confidence, man!" he said, intruding on the conversation in an attempt to get them to wrap it up. "Chicks go for confidence, not facial hair, so just suck it up and ask her out and make sure you don't stutter or twiddle your fucking fingers and she'll say yes. I mean, your friend here sounds like he gets some and he's wearing a fucking pink polo shirt and has blonde highlights. Now, shut up, I'm trying to learn here." Dean faced the front again; turning his back on Joey's shocked face and pink polo shirt's indignant one.

"Dean," Sam hissed, looking from Dean to the two students and back again. "What was that?"

"Hey, don't get me started on your fashion sense, too."

Sam smirked and shook his head. "I can't take you anywhere."

Before either could continue, the next words out of the lecturer's mouth stunned them into silence:

"And like our good friend, Frost, wrote: I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. So, don't be afraid to tackle the more challenging essays." The students chuckled, obviously used to having Frost quotes flung at them– every lecturer had their obsessive point of reference. "Believe me, if I have to read 'it's all subjective' one more time, I might have to commit mass failings. Remember, tackle the topic: How much of our actions are of free agency, and how much are dictated by our social reality and the events thereof? Does character change with circumstance or are our values intrinsic and unchanging? Take a stance and explore it. Be brave."

Dean exchanged a look with Sam. "Well, someone's sure paying attention to this class."

"That can't be a coincidence," Sam whispered. "The ghost quotes Frost, the lecturer quotes Frost, students from this class are being killed…"

But Dean wasn't listening. A cold had shot up his spine and rendered him speechless as his eyes focused on the girl sitting up front, on the girl looking around the lecture with big dark eyes, on the girl with the pale face and long hair.

Dean startled out of his shocked stupor when he felt Sam's hand on his arm.

"Dean?"

"I see dead people."

"What?"

"I either have the Haley Joel syndrome or I'm going crazy but I'm seeing dead people. Sitting in the front row."

Sam frowned and followed Dean's gaze. His jaw slid open when he saw the girl turned in her seat. "Huh?" was all Sam managed.

Dean nodded as he watched the girl scour the lecture with a bored expression, her eyes panning over them without recognition. For the second her eyes locked with his, though, Dean's memory flashed back to that smiling face inches from his as her fingers wrapped around his neck and squeezed and to the eyes that had sparked with an anger that shot through him like electricity, or like the absent needles that had branded his arm. It was her. There wasn't a single doubt in his mind. She was slightly less pale, her eyes were ringed with eyeliner and coated in dark eyeshadow and she was _breathing_, but it was still her. Dean watched as she turned back to the front and leaned against the person next to her, who in turn flung his heavily tattooed arm around her shoulders.

Dean blinked and looked up as the lights brightened and the lecturer stepped away from the podium, signaling the lecture's end. Dean shot up, the chair folding with a bang. Eyes trained on the girl, Dean hurried past the students taking their sweet-assed time packing their stuff. He knocked a few pens and notebooks from writing ledges in his haste but barely noticed the owners' cries of "Hey!"

"Dean! Wait!" But Dean ignored Sam too and pushed past the crowd of students walking down the steps. He was only interested in that girl as she left her boyfriend talking to the lecturer and disappeared out the doors. Dean sped up, literally pushing people aside as he raced to catch her.

There she was. Leaning against the corridor wall and chipping at the remaining flecks of black polish on her nails. Dean smiled tightly, his anger spurred on by the pounding in his head and the way his shoulder stung with every movement. He started for her but someone grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Dean! Listen to me," Sam hissed, dragging him away from the crowd.

"Gerr'off me." Dean tried to yank his arm free of Sam's grip. "What the hell are you doing? She's going to get away."

Sam refused to let go. "No, she isn't, she's just standing there, and what the hell are _you_ doing? We can't just tackle her and make a big scene or we'll be kicked out of this place." He glared at Dean for a second then slowly, cautiously, removed his hand.

"Figure what out? She's the floaty glowy bitch who's trying to kill me. There, figured out."

"Right, Dean. College student by day, ghost by night. That makes real sense."

Dean opened his mouth to respond but couldn't for the life of him explain that one, so he shut it with a glare and conceded that Sam was right. For now. And he wasn't happy about it. "Fine, go play nice with the thing trying to kill your brother."

Sam sighed and turned his back on Dean. A casual smile stole his expression as he walked up to the girl. Dean followed close behind.

Sam stood a few feet away and waited for the girl to notice him. She remained leaning against the wall, one booted foot propped against it, still picking at her nails. "Um…hi," Sam said. She waited a second before slowly looking up at him, raising her eyebrows and waiting for him to continue. "Um, well, me and my bro -"

"Cousin," Dean interrupted, remembering what he'd put on their student IDs. "I'm Dean, this is Sam, we think we recognize you but can't really put our finger on where, one of those face things, you know? Where were you last night? Between one and seven, to be exact." Dean ignored the sigh that came from Sam's direction and watched the girl carefully.

She tilted her head and pushed away from the wall, stepping closer to him as her lips curled into a smile. "Am I being interrogated?" she asked. "Is there a crime on campus being kept all hush hush? A murder, perhaps?"

"Attempted," Dean said, refusing to look away. Until Sam pushed him aside with a tight smile, that is.

"We just thought we recognized you from a party, that's all," Sam said.

The girl's gaze slid towards Sam and then to the door as her boyfriend emerged. She shrugged, her expression turning bored again. "I was with my boy all night. We were…NC-17-ing it." Her boyfriend hooked his arm around her shoulders and appraised Sam and Dean before dismissing them. He turned and started down the hall, pulling the girl with him. "Bye, Sam. Bye, Dean," she said, turning her head to watch them as she walked away, her eyes swiveling over theirs just like that ghost had.

"Dude, that is so her," Dean whispered, swatting Sam for emphasis.

"First, ow, and secondly, again with the whole one breathes and the other doesn't."

"Sorry about hitting on your girl, man," Dean called after their retreating backs. The boyfriend stopped short and Sam whipped around to look at Dean like he'd gone nuts. "Trust me," Dean muttered, nudging Sam out of his way.

The boyfriend locked eyes with Dean, sauntering back and laughing quietly. "I suggest you find a new crush to drool over. Strongly suggest. I only agree to threesomes if two of 'em are female."

"Sorry," Dean said, eyes trained on Susie. "I'd heard she was into the whole tattoo thing, that's all, and, strangest thing, I found one on my shoulder that I swear wasn't there a few days ago." Susie's eyes widened. "Of a spearhead." Dean watched as the boyfriend's mouth slid open in shock. "My mistake."

The boyfriend quickly recovered, retracting his arm from Susie's shoulder and striding for the exit, hitting it open with such force that the sound resonated through the halls. Susie hurried after him.

"He's in on it," Dean said.

"Yeah, but what is 'it'?"

Dean turned away before Sam even finished the sentence. Loitering in the hall, chatting quietly, stood a small group of students, two of which Dean recognized. "Hey," he called out. "Joey and friends." The small group turned at the call and smiled politely. "That's your name, Joey, right?" Dean asked, approaching the group.

"Yeah," Joey said, looking nervous, his pudgy fingers fiddling with his bag's strap. "Sorry about talking, um, you know in class and preventing you from, uh, learning and stuff."

"Huh?" Dean said. "Oh, that. Fuck it. Do any of you know who that couple is that me and my cousin over there were just talking to?"

Joey looked down the hall, but they had already disappeared.

"The Satan worshipper Goth ones," Dean clarified as Sam approached and smiled at the group in greeting.

"You know, regarding the Goth subculture as evil is a huge stereotype and doesn't take into consideration the multiple and varied reasons behind any adoption of Goth style," interrupted a small brunette before Dean had a chance to introduce Sam by name. She had a bobbed haircut and an array of badges covering her backpack.

Dean glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, whatever, shortstuff, do you know who the Goths are or not?"

Joey answered for her. "That was Susie Chandler. Her pierced, Courtney Taylor hair styled boyfriend was Damien Charles. No one knows too much about them; they pretty much keep to themselves."

"Are they book worms?"

"Are they competitive, he means," Sam said.

Joey frowned, thinking. "No…no, not really. Just average like the rest of us. The big name students they…well, you know."

"Went splat, right," Dean said. "You wouldn't, by any chance, know what dorm room this Susie chick is in?"

"Why do you want to know?" the small brunette asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're asking a lot of questions, what's your agenda?"

"What's my _agenda?_ What the hell makes you think I have an agenda? Do we look like the mafia? We just want to talk to her."

"That's what they all say before whipping out the guns. Hello, don't you watch TV?"

Dean stared at her for a second, before turning to look at his brother. Was this chick for real? He scowled at the smirk covering Sam's face.

"We're transfer students," Sam said.

"From where?"

"Stanford."

"What are you majoring in?"

Dean frowned. What _were_ they meant to be majoring in? He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Do the Student IDs have that printed on them?"

"We're both prelaw," Sam interrupted.

"So you're studying to become lawyers?"

"Yeah," Sam answered at the same time Dean blurted, "hell no."

The girl turned to eye Deran. "Well, what does your future involve, then?"

Dean felt everyone's eyes turn to him, including Sam's.

"Uh…well…" Dean paused, a flush creeping up his neck as his mind drew a blank. He shifted uncomfortably. "My future will, uh, involve…a hot blonde. Maybe a couple of 'em. And possibly some bounty hunting."

She scoffed. "So you're one of _those _guys. The oh I'll just turn everything into a joke type. You're Chris without the pink."

"Hey," Chris objected. "I'm very serious about my V8 car racing aspirations. A generation four, eight cylinder LSA engine, Corvette. One day, papa's going to be able to afford you, baby."

The girl ignored him and continued staring at Dean. "You still haven't answered my question; why do you want to know what room she's in?"

The entire group stared at Dean expectantly, now as intrigued as the girl was.

"Sammy here has a crush on her," Dean answered quickly, wrapping his arm around Sam's shoulders and pulling him closer to the group. "Big, huge, massive crush. Love at first sight, Titanic style. And now he wants to, you know, sweep her off her feet, Titanic style. He's into the whole dark, broody, whip thing. Aint that right, Sammy?" Sam sputtered for a second and Dean wasn't sure if Sam was going to blush or throttle him. "Aw, see this?" Dean grabbed Sam around the jaw in a mock display of affection. "He's too shy to admit it, but he's really into the tough love thing. This guy has piercings in places you don't want to know about." Dean's grin wavered as Sam elbowed him.

Sam glared at Dean for a second and then took a visible breath. He turned to the group and smiled tightly. "What can I say; I'm a sucker for the pale ones."

The girl scoffed. "Men. Her boyfriend seems like the possessive type, I'd watch out if I were you." She glanced at her watch and hitched her bag higher onto her shoulder. "Gotta get going. Catch you later. I'll see you tonight, huh, Joey?" she said, smiling at him.

Joey turned bright red and seemed torn between grinning and replying, resulting in a sort of choking sound. "Sure, see you then," he finally managed to squeeze out when she and her friends were halfway down the hall.

"We'll work on that speaking thing," Chris said as he turned to check his hair in the window's reflection, absently tweaking it.

"That her?" Dean asked, nodding in the girl's direction.

Joey nodded, smiling shyly. "Brenda"

"She's cute. In that annoying sort of way."

"What's tonight?" Sam asked, trying to sound casual. Dean knew differently. Everything that happened in this school had to be checked out. Clues always existed; it was just a matter of uncovering them.

"The Night of the Living Dead," Chris answered dramatically, before grinning and slapping Joey on the back. "Scared, buddy?"

"Of the Ghost of Exams' Eve? Not really. Of Brenda, yes."

"Wait, wait, Night of what? Ghost who?" Dean interrupted. Why was it impossible to get a straight answer out of college students?

"Our college is haunted," Chris announced proudly. "Bet you didn't know that," he grinned, punching Dean's shoulder.

Dean frowned, looking down at his shoulder and then up at Chris' bobbing head. "Oh, wow, haunted, really?" Dean exchanged a dry look with Sam. "Do explain."

"Every year before the first set of exams, a group of students perform, like, this séance thing," Joey said, a smile spreading onto his face, his friend's enthusiasm too contagious to resist. "If we don't stuff it up since we're, you know, winging the Latin and all, students each year draw on the spirit of this girl who died from stress on the eve of her first exam. Her unfinished business is to pass, so she helps the rest of _us_ pass."

"Has it ever worked?" Sam asked, startled.

"Well, me and Chris both got Ds last year. So, hasn't worked yet. But it did teach us not to copy off each other. And sometimes the séance gets pretty creepy – like we'll hear someone chanting from through the walls. It stops after we turn the music off…but we catch it every now and then. And the séance's after party is pretty cool." Joey's smile faltered. "You know, when I'm not throwing up."

Dean smirked. "Too much booze?"

"Too much Brenda. She makes me nervous. A little."

"So this séance thing happens tonight?" Sam asked.

"Yep," Joey said. "It was meant to happen two nights ago but Fred – the guy who leads the séance – had some student union meeting that he forgot about."

"So we gotta do the booze and music thing all over again." Chris grinned. "Bummer, huh?"

"Wait…" Sam said. "Two nights ago…as in the night before Sherrie Cruiser committed suicide?"

"Yeah."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Where is this thing?" Sam asked.

Joey and Chris exchanged looks. "We're not really meant to invite people not already in on it."

"Can't have alcohol on campus, so can't have untrustworthy gatecrashers who might lead the college officials to us and rain on our alcohol parade," Chris added.

"You can't trust these faces?" Dean asked, pointing between him and Sam and trying to mold the right balance of insult and indignation onto his features. He knew Sam had no problem pulling off the innocent thing; he was a different matter.

"Two 'transfer' students who just show up and start asking weird questions?" Joey said, smiling to let them know he was joking.

"That's just creepy," Chris said, completely serious as far as Dean could tell.

"Hey, c'mon, give us a break," Dean said. "Look, Joey, you want to hook up with this Brenda chick, right? Then you need my help. Ask Sam, I'm great at the whole, you know, helping people with their crap." Dean looked at Sam, silently imploring him to back him up; they needed to get to that freakin' séance.

Sam sighed. "Sure, yeah, he's…" Sam trailed off. "Sure."

Dean glared at Sam, who ignored him in return.

"All about confidence, right?" Joey asked.

"Exactly," Dean said, pushing aside his impatience and playing along. "It works for me." Dean grinned, looking over at Sam who raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Dean's grin faded into a frown. "But, Sam, here, not so lucky, yet you wouldn't believe the type of girls falling all over him – out of this world types." Dean's grin returned at the way Sam clenched his jaw. It must've been killing him not to shout: 'She doesn't have a crush on me!'

"Yeah, like women don't go for the tall and broody type," Joey scoffed.

"I'm not broody!"

"Denial is your enemy, Sammy."

Sam sighed loudly. "Please just tell him where this séance thing is."

Joey smiled. "There's this building that burnt down a few years back, right at the back of the campus. It's meant to be off limits, dangerous or something, but unofficially it's where everyone goes if they want to do anything off the radar. Parties and stuff. There's always someone hanging out in there. The séance starts at nine."

"Bring booze," Chris demanded. "Or marshmallows."

"Wait, what dorm room is Susie in?" Sam asked quickly.

Joey looked sympathetic. "Room 26. On the nineteenth floor." He said 'nineteenth floor' in a deep and gravelly voice, Chris waggling his fingers behind him in what Dean assumed was meant to be a spooky impression.

"You scared of heights?" Dean asked.

"So you don't know the story, huh?" Joey grinned. "The Ghost of Exams' Eve lives on the nineteenth floor – people have seen her walking the halls…and not at night like your normal ghost. During the day. She's our morning ghost."

"What floor are you two on?" Sam asked.

"The…nineteenth," Joey said.

Sam smiled slightly. "Okay, well, thank you for all the help, but we should probably head off."

Chris slammed his hand down on Sam's shoulder, making him lurch a little. "No worries, camarada, anything for the pursuit of twisted, kinky love." They walked away, saluting their goodbyes.

Dean turned to Sam and slapped him on the shoulder in an imitation of Chris. He opened his mouth to say something, but could only manage a huge grin before bending at the waist and laughing.

Sam sighed. "I'm going to let the ghost thing kick your ass next time."

* * *

"Why'd you brand him?" Damien demanded once he and Susie were alone in his room. "What we do is important, Susie, you can't just get me to kill every idiot that tries to get in your pants."

"That isn't it!"

Damien's voice lowered and anger flashed through his eyes. "Then why did you brand him?" He grabbed her arm. "Tell me!"

Susie yanked her arm free. "I'll show you," she whispered. She reached up and placed her hand against his head.

Damien gasped and stepped back, face paling.

"See?" Susie said, tears welling in her eyes. "He has to die.

* * *

Dean was frowning in concentration and biting his lip as he picked the lock to Susie's dorm.

"Uh, damn, Dean, you forgot your key? Again?"

Dean paused and looked up at Sam as a student strode pass them, too preoccupied with keeping steady the mountain of books in his arms to even glance in their direction. "You suck at the lying thing."

"Stop taking your time and I wouldn't have to," Sam hissed.

"Dude, this is a delicate procedure. Do you want Psycho Goth to know we broke in? What are you so antsy about, anyway? I'm the one doing all the work here."

Sam's jaw dropped and his eyes narrowed. "All the work? I've been loitering here in this goddamn hallway all morning, afternoon and most the evening waiting for Susie to leave her dorm. All day, Dean. All day staring at salmon coloured walls! What have you been doing?"

Dean smirked, resuming his work on the lock. "Found a TV in the floor's common room. Bumped into that Joey and Chris. Remind me I owe 'em five bucks – I bet they wouldn't keep pressing that damn button. Then that annoying Brenda chick showed up. Joey turns bright red every time she looks at him – funny guy." The door clicked open and Dean stood up, brushing down his knees. "This college thing's a piece of cake. No wonder you got into Law school so easily." He handed Sam the lock pick and turned away before Sam could respond. He pushed open the door, revealing a dark interior. Dean stepped in cautiously, blocking the entrance as his eyes scanned each corner to make sure it was safe.

"Move!" Sam whispered from behind.

"You move."

Sam shoved him out of the way and Dean stumbled for a second before righting himself and glaring at Sam. Sam just rolled his eyes and switched on the light, shutting the door behind them.

"Room looks normal," Dean said. The bed was unmade and crumpled tissues stained black from nail polish littered the bedside table. Clothes hung from the back of the desk chair and a few posters of bands Dean had never heard of hung from the walls.

"Were you expecting severed heads hanging from the ceiling?"

Dean ignored him and started sifting through some of the books lying on the desk. He paused and looked around the room again, frowning. She had _a lot _of books. They were sprawled across the desk and spilling onto the floor, creating a sea of multi-colored titles that lapped against the bookshelf. "Someone's missing their television."

"More in here," Sam said, opening the closet to reveal a large stack of books piled on the top shelf. He pulled one down and flipped through it while Dean creaked the door open and checked to see if the coast was still clear.

"Dean," Sam called, his voice laced with an emotion Dean couldn't quite place.

Dean quickly shut the door and turned to his brother. "What?"

Sam stared at the book for a second without answering. His face was growing paler in front of Dean's eyes.

"Sam?" Dean said, stepping closer. Sam passed the book to him and ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it in frustration.

Dean read the title out loud. "Astral Projection." He looked up at Sam who was waiting for his reaction, his face a mixture of disbelief and resignation. Dean flipped to the first page. "Proponents of astral projection maintain that their consciousness or soul has transferred into an astral body, or double, which moves in tandem with the physical body in a parallel world known as the astral plane." Dean shut the book with a snap and looked up at Sam. "Wait, we're not really thinking what we're thinking, are we?"

Sam turned in answer and started yanking more books from the shelf, reading each title aloud before tossing them to the ground in disgust. "The Out of Body Experience; Controlling your Astral Voyage; Parallel Power and You. Getting the picture yet?"

Dean grabbed Sam's wrists and forced him to stop throwing the books around. "So the ghost stalking us isn't a ghost, it's this Susie chick's astral projected, spiritually powered up self. I got it."

Sam pulled away and sighed, shutting his eyes for a second. "It's why the EMF and ITS didn't read any supernatural activity. And it means this hunt just got a hell of a lot more difficult."

Dean nodded in realization. "Can't kill humans, right? Personally, I have nothing against offing a murderer who's trying to off _me. _But, hey, that was your rule, right? We can only kill what's already dead. So, what are we meant to do now, Gandhi?"

Sam shrugged, the movement looking heavy, his eyes sliding to the spot on Dean's shirt that covered his tattoo. "Find out why she's doing this. Try to talk to her, I guess."

"_Talk_ to her?"

"Dean-"

"No, seriously, explain to me how we're going to talk to the psychic, psychotic murderer? Over tea and crumpets?"

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not psychic."

"What?"

"Being able to astral project doesn't mean she's psychic."

"Dude, kinda beside the point!" Dean suddenly froze, holding up his finger to silence whatever Sam was about to say. He hurried to the door and opened it a crack, listening carefully. "Crap. I think she's coming. Let's go." Dean flipped off the light and flung open the door. A loud crash sounded from behind him. Dean whipped around and switched the light back on. Sam was hopping on one foot, grimacing. Half the books and assorted stationary that had been on the desk now scattered the floor.

"Dude, are you kidding me? We gotta go."

"You could've waited to turn the light off." Sam starting scooping up the objects and propping them back on the table.

"We don't have time to play Neat Freak, Sam!"

"She can't know we were in here, Dean."

Dean clenched his jaw and peeked into the hallway again; the voices were getting louder. "Hurry up," Dean snapped, flipping off the light and running into the hallway and around the corner, skidding to a stop in front of Susie. "You again, hey!" he said, forcing a smile.

Susie tilted her head and looked up at him. "You again," she said, her tone bored and sullen. "I'll call you," she said to the girl beside her, who nodded and disappeared into a room.

"So, how are you?" Dean asked, absently tapping his fingers against his thigh.

"I have cramps, I feel crappy." She pushed past him and turned the corner, clomping towards her room.

"Really? Want to tell me about that?" Dean grabbed her arm and pulled her around so that she was facing away from the door.

"Is there something wrong with you?"

Dean just nodded, 'hmm'-ing like he did with any female he wasn't actually paying attention to.

How long did it take to pick up a few freakin' books? Just open the door and get out of there, Sam. Wait…what had he just asked this chick? His eyes widened. "Oh, god no. Sorry, don't tell me about it. Tell me about something else. Your hair. Is it dyed?"

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you a closet transvestite?"

"Am I a…" Dean trailed off, his chuckle dying. "If I say yes, will you give me some long, detailed tips?"

She squinted at him before her face slackened in realization. She whipped around and looked towards her room, eyes wide. She marched for it, expression darkening.

"Wait," Dean called, jogging after her. "You don't want to go in there; it's being fumigated!"

She grabbed the handle and flung the door open, switching on the lights. Dean cringed, expecting to see Sam's guilty face bent over her desk with a stack of her books in his hands.

The room was empty.

Susie's gaze swiveled towards Dean, who quickly wiped the surprised expression from his face and smiled at her tightly: nothing to hide here; unless you counted his missing brother, of course.

Still watching him, she backed slowly into the room, only breaking her gaze when she reached her desk. Her hand trailed over the desk until it landed on a skull-shaped weight holder. She picked it up and moved it a few paces, to where it was meant to be sitting. "Are we playing hide and seek?" She said it so quietly Dean was forced to step further into the room to hear her.

She smiled and turned towards the closet, flinging it open. Dean rushed forward, expecting Sam to be in there and expecting her anger to flare up at the intrusion. But it was empty. Still no Sam. Now he was starting to worry. He let his eyes roam the room, trying to work out where Sam was hiding – but college dorms were tiny and Sam was a big guy; there wasn't really anywhere he _could_ hide.

His attention turned back to Susie as she picked up the books that Sam had thrown there. Her face visibly paled as she stared at them. "You shouldn't snoop through a girl's belongings," she whispered, hands gripping the books. "Someone's been naughty."

"Yeah, you shouldn't shove people out of windows, either," Dean said, ignoring the chill that attacked him as he watched her fingers tighten on the books until they paled in synch with her face. "Someone _has_ been naughty."

"You don't know anything. You're going to screw it all up."

Dean froze. _This is too important for you two to screw up…_the words swirled around his head until they merged with the memory of her hands around his throat, squeezing. And something snapped. Something inside him let go of the need for discrepancy and subtlety, for the guise of normality and control - they were games, all just games and he didn't want to play them anymore. He was sick of pretending to be normal, pretending to be a student or priest or technician. His life wasn't normal; _he_ wasn't normal. He was a hunter and she was his target and he'd be damned if both weren't fully aware of it. He was done playing games.

He stepped closer to her. "Screw up what? Why did you mark me? What did you make my brother see?"

"I'm not one of the bad guys, Dean." Her eyes glazed over in an anger that matched his own. "You don't know anything."

"Then enlighten me, bitch. Because I'd say shoving your peers out of windows puts you smack dab in the bad guy category."

She shook her head and backed away from him. "This is more important than a few spoiled rich kids."

"_What _is?"

She seemed to deflate, looking down at the ground and remaining that way for a few seconds, long enough to unsettle Dean. "How far are you willing to go?" she finally whispered, barely audible.

"What?"

She looked up at him, a small smile dancing on her lips. Her eyes bore into his. "How far are you willing to go to save him? To save them?"

Dean froze. A chill spiked up his spine and momentarily rendered him useless. The anger left him so fast that the muscles in his face slackened before he had a chance to mold them into a guise of bravado.

"What do those numbers mean?" he asked, recovering. "What the hell are you counting down? And you better answer me or I swear to god…" he let the threat hang in the air.

"You throw a vague threat my way and expect me to spill my 'big evil' plan," Susie scoffed. "Has that _ever _worked for you?"

Dean drew out his gun and pointed it at her. "What are you counting down?" he asked again.

Susie's eyes slid towards the gun, but her grin only widened. "What are _you _counting down? The days till little Sammy says bye-bye?"

Dean clicked the safety off. "You have five seconds to tell me before your brains replace those piss ugly posters."

Susie stepped closer to him, opening her arms. "Go ahead," she whispered, still smiling. "I dare you."

Dean tightened his grip on the gun and aimed. For several seconds.

"Performance anxiety?"

He lowered the gun and tucked it back into his waistband. "Not yet. I'm not done with you; it'd be a waste of a bullet. You're time will come, sweetheart. But meanwhile, you know what I will do? I'm going to have Sam forge some nifty drug charges. We'll send in an anonymous tip and, believe me, if we can get our hands on this much arsenal, we can get our hands on some ice too. You'll be kicked out of this place faster than you can say 'I was framed by those hunks.'"

Susie's grinned faltered for a second. "Just wait till I kindly point out all those guns I'm sure you have stashed away in your room."

Dean shrugged, unconcerned. "Me and Sam can finish this hunt from a motel. Somehow, I get the impression you need to be here for whatever the hell you've got planned."

Susie's grin fell from her face.

"One more time, now. What are you counting down?" Dean slowly smiled, matching her earlier expression. He was sick of waiting around, of playing by the bad guys' rules, waiting to react to their moves. He wanted some answers.

Susie stared at him for a second with eyes slit angrily. She crossed her arms and leaned forward slightly. "Your death."

The words hit, but Dean was careful not to show a reaction. "So this tat on my shoulder wasn't just free ink. Did your other victims get the big countdown treatment too, or am I just special?"

She cocked her head and tried to grin but it looked more like a snarl. "You're not. But your death will be."

"Baby, you're not the first to tell me that."

"Oh, this time you aren't getting out of it. I saw your death in my vision. My visions always come true. Always." She took a few steps backwards and propped into a sitting position on her desk, casually brushing some lint off her checkered skirt. "I don't know why this is news to you; Sam knows what the numbers are counting down." Her eyes slid towards his. "He didn't tell you?"

Dean froze. "What?"

She feigned surprise. "He saw the same vision I did, the one where he screams your name because you're dying. Painfully. Gee, guess he never got round to mentioning it." She watched him closely. "Betchya it's because of that other thing I showed him: The dream."

"What dream?" Dean was still whispering, unable to make his voice louder, unable to pad it with anger or silent threats. It just sounded numb.

"Oh, you know, the dream. About you. And your death." She swung her legs casually. "You boys really don't talk much, do ya? Guess it's hard for Sam, though. I pity him, I do. He's all educated and intelligent, and you're…" she looked him up and down, "…well, not."

Before Dean could question how she knew that, she strode across the room and pulled open the door. "Get out of here," she said. "Before I start screaming."

Looking around one more time, though knowing there wasn't anywhere his brother could be hiding, Dean walked to the door. He paused at the entrance, though, and leaned casually against the frame, bending closer to her like he was about to reveal a secret. "You try to hurt my brother and you'll wish I just pushed you out a window." He smiled at her and backed out, refusing to break her gaze, refusing to let the threat slip.

"Hey, Dean?" Susie said, standing with her hand on the door. She grinned. "You're cute, too." The door slammed shut.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **For those of you directed here for the rewrite, a quick refresher on chapters past: Dean and Sam encounter mysterious suicides at a college campus and Sam has a vision of Dean in danger (among other things); **chapter 2:** Sam has a dream about killing Dean and keeps it all hush hush, they move into the college as 'students' and Dean is attacked by ghost-like lady who 'knows what he did and won't let him'; **chap 3:** Dean finds he was branded with a spearhead tattoo by the ghost-like girl and a mysterious no. sequence is revealed - 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 0 0 0 0 0; **chap 4:** Dean and Sam meet Joey and Chris at a lecture and learn that the students participate in an annual seance, during the lecture they also discover that the 'ghost' is a human named Susie who can astral project hence her 'ghost-like' appearances and that her boyfriend, Damien, is in on whatever is happening. Our boys raid her room, Susie comes back, Dean tries to distract her while Sam gets out of her dorm but is too late and as both barge into the room, Dean realises Sam has dissapeared.

Phew, now here you go, the rest:

**  
Chapter Five**

Susie slid backwards onto her bed. She unzipped her boots and pulled them off. They hit the floor with a couple of thumps, followed by a sound like a slithering snake as she curled her stockinged legs beneath her.

"Sam," she called out. The room remained still and quiet. "Sam," she called again, smiling. "If you're waiting for me to fall asleep, I should probably let you know, I rarely do." She lifted her eyes to the window as the sound of shuffling destroyed the guise of solitude. A large hand curled around the window frame and then a mop of hair followed. "Gosh, the pigeons are big round here, aren't they?"

* * *

With a bit of effort, Sam managed to squeeze his tall frame through the window and jump inside. He straightened and watched Susie with caution.

"It was a risk hiding out there. Hasn't all these tragic deaths by window fallage taught you anything, Sammy?" She was grinning with the calm and confidence of someone who knew they had the upper hand.

"Yeah, to avoid the ones causing all those deaths."

"Didn't want me to find out you and that brother of yours were snooping, huh? A little tip about women – we always know when our things have been touched. Throwing our stuff around, on the other hand, is a _dead _giveaway." She nodded to the closet where her books still sat at odd angles from where Sam had tossed them. "But hey, men _are_ the dumber sex."

"Why are you doing this, Susie?" Sam asked, gauging his distance from the door.

Susie leaned forward and followed his gaze. "Am I keeping you, Sammy?"

"It's Sam."

She slid off the bed and walked closer to him, the smile never leaving her lips. "Sam," she corrected, the word rolling off her tongue as if testing it, playing with it. "What was the plan, Pigeon Boy? Wait out there in the dark until I left the room again and hope not to catch a chill in the meantime?"

Sam resisted rolling his eyes, more annoyed at himself than anything. Hiding on the ledge had been a reckless move, but he'd panicked. She was coming and Sam knew his brother's powers of persuasion wouldn't have the same pulling power on someone who was obviously aware of their agenda. So he'd panicked. "Why are you doing this?" he repeated, the edge falling from his voice as he looked at her and remembered Max. They were both just human, not demons or spirits whose anger had consumed every other facet of their consciousness. Human. Just like him, just like Dean. There had to be a reason why she'd turn into a killer; why anyone would turn into a killer. There had to be.

"Doing what, honey?" Susie brushed passed him and propped herself up on the desk. She grabbed the skull-shaped paperweight and started spinning it.

"Those people! Your classmates!" Sam wanted to understand, wanted her to make him understand. Were they all capable of this? Was he?

"Oh, that," she said in a bored tone. "I can honestly tell you that I didn't kill them. I just…chose them."

Sam frowned, thinking. "The tattoos," he said quietly. "You brand them and…and someone else kills them? Your boyfriend?"

Susie did a palms up gesture and shrugged. "Am I bleeding to my death? Do I have you and Deany Boy tied to a pole, ready to bleed you to your death? Uh, no and no. So why would I just reveal everything? Where would the fun in that be?"

"How do you choose them?" Sam persisted. "The victims, the people you brand, why them? Do you want to get rid of the competition? Is that it?"

Susie scoffed. "Please."

Sam sighed in frustration and turned to leave; it wasn't exactly the smartest move staying in here, weaponless, to begin with.

"They were already dead."

Sam stopped, slowly turning back.

"They just didn't know it yet. I did, though. Cam was going to get hit by a car on Graduation Night. Claire was going to overdose on Crystal Meth three years later in an attempt to stay thin. Sherrie was going to die old, in her bed, surrounded by fat grandkids." Susie shrugged. "I didn't like Sherrie."

Sam ran a hand over his face, trying to find some strand of explanation in these revelations. "I don't….how do you even…If you wanted to confuse me then congratulations, you've done it."

Susie smiled. "When I was still in elementary school, I had this…dream…about this girl from my class - I can't even remember her fucking name. In this dream, she was accidentally run over by a teacher in the parking lot, and she died. Low and behold, a week later my little dream comes true. I freaked, naturally, thinking I'd somehow caused it. But I quickly learned that I'm not the Grim Reaper, I just have front row seats to his show." She watched Sam closely, sliding off the desk and into the chair.

Realization began to creep up Sam's spine like icy fingers. "You have visions," he whispered. "Of people who…who need to be saved."

She stopped swiveling her chair. "No…" she said. "I have visions of how people die. Of what ending Fate's tossed their way. There's no bargaining with Fate, honey."

Sam backed up, shaking his head.

…_Drops of blood hitting a wood floor, tilting blue symbols, a wall of spears, another body falling from a window, a fire, a body hitting the ground, and then the sound of his own voice screaming Dean's name._

… _ten fingers that were slowly counting down. Then Sam stood where the girl had been, watching himself as he walked up to Dean, watching himself grab Dean's head and twist._

"I'm like a walking crystal ball," Susie continued, ignoring Sam's distress.

Sam rubbed his eyes, trying to see pass the panic that was filling his head like a giant balloon. "No…" he said. "No, those students didn't die the way they were meant to; you killed them first, which means your visions aren't set in stone. They can be changed. Stopped."

"We just got to them before Mr. Reaper did; if we hadn't, they'd have died the way I saw it. Haven't you seen Final Destination?" Susie cocked her head. "You're special too, aren't ya?" She stood up and stepped closer to him. "Back on the lawn, I hadn't meant to share my vision with you." She reached up and brushed her fingers across his cheek. "You looked at me and they just sort of… popped out." She pouted in mock sympathy. "Better ask your brother what kind of casket he wants."

Sam shoved away her arm. "Dean is not going to die."

Susie laughed and propped herself back up on the desk. "Yes he is, hon." She made a motion with her hands to imitate a neck twisting. "Crack. And we both know how. Gee, and I thought it was only on Thanksgiving that family killed each other."

Sam took a step towards her, hands curling into fists.

"Watch it," she said. "Don't make me hurt you. You're not a part of this."

"But Dean is? Why him?"

"He deserves it!" The sudden anger that sprang from her voice almost made Sam jump. "I know what he did and I'm not going to let him!" Her eyes shone with angry tears as they bore into Sam's. "He's going to burn and if you get in our way, so will you."

Sam turned away in disgust and strode to the door, pulling it open with such force that it slipped from his grip and collided into the wall with a loud crack, reminding Sam again of his dream. He paused and turned back to Susie, whose expression had switched back to amused mode. "Me and Dean? A lot of things have tried to kill us, but we're still here. Somehow, I doubt you're the one to end it. And I _know _I'm not going to be." He slammed the door shut on her widening grin.

* * *

When Sam finally stepped into their room, Dean whipped around from where he'd been pacing and strode up to Sam with wide eyes. "Where the hell have you been?" he barked. 

Sam sighed and shut the door. "I was hiding. She found me."

"Where were you hiding?"

Sam braced himself for Dean's reaction. "Outside her window."

Dean sputtered for a second. "Are you crazy?"

Sam shrugged. "Possibly. I panicked. I thought I'd just crawl across the ledge to Joey and Chris' dorm. It seemed safer than in there with her."

Dean shook his head and staring at Sam in disbelief. "Are you okay?" he finally asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, distracted.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Dean, I'm fine."

"Good." Dean slapped Sam across the head.

"Hey!"

"That's for being an idiot." Dean shook his head and plopped onto the bed. "Just thought you'd hide on the ledge…"

Sam picked up a pillow and flung it at Dean, who halfheartedly blocked the blow. "Hey, it was worth it, I got some information out of her. Useful information."

"While pretending to be a talking pigeon?"

Sam rolled his eyes and flopped onto his bed. "Unlike my genius brother, she guessed where I was hiding."

"What'd she say? 'Coz my conversation with her basically went: snark snark, muaha muaha."

"Didn't let her get a word in, huh?"

"You're hilarious," Dean grumbled.

Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position and grew serious. He glanced at Dean and silently debated how much he wanted to reveal. "The boyfriend, Damien, is definitely in on this…whatever this is. She said she just brands the victims, doesn't do the killing herself. I'm guessing that's his job. "

Dean nodded. "Dude, we already knew this. Well, I did, anyway, you've always been a bit slow on the uptake. But did she tell you why they're killing people?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess that's up to us to work out." Sam picked at some loose thread on his jeans. "She has visions, too. That's what I saw back on the lawn. Borrowed them, somehow. She, um, she thinks she sees how people are meant to die. And I don't think they're killing classmates for academic advantage."

"So, to recap – this 'ghost' that branded and attacked me is actually a human who can astral project and draw on all these funky powers in her astral projected self, included the ability to tattoo potential victims so that her boy-toy knows who to push or coerce or freakin' trip out of windows, for god knows what reason, and she obviously wants me dead too and wants to date you." Dean paused for a second, frowning. "Are we being punk'd?"

A smile broke onto Sam's face. "I don't think so. Just…confused the hell out of."

They were quiet for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

"She told me some interesting things, too," Dean said. He let the statement hang in the air and flopped against the pillows, linking his hands beneath his head.

* * *

Sam watched Dean cluck his tongue in that annoying way he did only if deep in concentration or if he wanted to get under Sam's skin. "Oh yeah?" Sam said, feigning a casual tone as he turned his back to Dean and started to pack. Now that they knew for certain that the 'ghost' was in fact a student living in this dorm, Sam wanted to be ready to leave at the drop of a hat. Dean only had a few weapons tucked away in the desk drawer; he never unpacked anything else. Sam had to repack all his clothes. 

They spent a few minutes in a silence broken only by the rustling of Sam's packing. He was deliberately drawing out the process, not yet ready to face what Dean knew.

"What are you going to do for my funeral? I'm thinking a Brazilian theme: streamers, bright hues, girls in belly-bearing outfits and fruit hats. Does it scream 'Dean'?"

Sam froze. He put down the canister of salt he was holding and looked up. Dean was watching him with an expression that was too neutral, too casual. "Dean…I was going to tell you-"

"Before or after the Samba girls danced on my grave?"

Sam rubbed his forehead and sighed. "Look, whatever she told you -"

"Oh, you mean that vision of my death that you had way back at the start of this hunt? Or whatever dream you had about my death that you neglected to tell me about? 'My death' being the key words here."

"Dean-"

"So, for conversation sake, why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you let me finish a sentence!"

"Are you looking forward to planning my funeral, or something?"

Sam felt the colour drain from his face. "Right, yeah, that's it; I'm ecstatic about choosing between mahogany and amber."

Dean just nodded and settled further into the pillows. "Don't forget the Samba girls."

"God, Dean. This isn't funny!"

"You're telling me," Dean snapped, glancing at Sam. But the anger and hurt that flashed across his face disappeared just as quickly and he returned his gaze to the ceiling. "No one wants to end up a walking cliché: I've turned into laughs-in-the-face-death boy. If anything, I wanted to be death-by-chocolate guy. Now that would've been an interesting way to go."

Sam took a deep breath to calm his frustration and walked around the bed to sit opposite Dean. "You're not going to die."

Dean looked over at him. His face was a perfectly sculpted blank. "Gee, Sam, you're still in the denial stage? You've have plenty of time to work through those issues. Longer than I have." He grinned without humour and returned his gaze to a random spot on the ceiling, his hands still linked behind his head.

Sam just sighed and absently scuffed the carpet with his sneaker. "I was going to tell you."

"When?" Dean pulled himself up and flung his legs over the edge of the bed, watching Sam closely. "Don't you think I deserve to know if Death himself is chasing my ass?"

"Dean, I don't even know if that's what I saw! It wasn't my vision, it was hers. It could have meant anything. Or _nothing._"

Dean pretended to mull this over. "Okay, so it could've actually meant that I'm going to trip over a garden rack and get whacked in the face, again and again. Like sideshow Bob." He frowned. "Was that the sort of other thing you were talking about?"

Sam sprung up and started tossing his last bit of clothing into the bag. "You're unbelievable."

"_I'm _unbelievable?" Dean stood up and grabbed the shirt from Sam's hands, chucking it away.

Sam clenched his jaw and strode past Dean, picking it up.

"I've been branded by a psycho that happens to see the way people die, Sam. How hard is that to figure out?"

Sam refused to answer Dean's sarcasm. He roughly folded the shirt and shoved it into his bag, zipping it closed with such force he heard a slight tear.

"What's that other thing Susie was talking about?" Dean pressed. "The dream? Since we're in such a sharing mood, and all."

Sam's mind flashed to the dream. He looked at Dean and noted the way Dean's body remained relaxed and casual. But his eyes betrayed him. They kept flitting back to Sam, waiting. But Sam couldn't do it. The world began spinning just at the thought of telling Dean about the dream. So he shook his head and averted his gaze. "It's not important. It was just a dream."

"Uh huh," Dean said. "Like Gary Glitter is just friendly, right?"

Sam was a quiet.

"Forget it," Dean said. He pulled his own bag from under the bed and unzipped it. He turned to the desk and yanked open the drawer. "I'm going to cark it at the ripe ol' age of twenty-seven, that's just great," he said, scooping up the extra bullet packets he'd stashed in the drawer. "Think you can make it to my funeral, or will you be too busy scouting colleges and singing in the rain?" He started hauling the packets into his bag.

Sam was horrified by the accusation. "You're not going to die, Dean," he repeated, anger eclipsing his guilt. "And I'm sure as hell not singing about any of this!"

"Could have fooled me."

"What the hell is that s'posed to mean?"

"It means you had _days _to let me in on whatever was going on in that head of yours. Instead, you were going to just let me walk right into death's hands."

"Right, like anything could have stopped you, anyway. You wouldn't have let this hunt go, Dean. You never let the hunt go. And stop talking like this is a sure thing, we don't know that!"

Dean threw the last few weapons into his bag. They clanked against the pile already in there. "Jesus, Sam! She sees the way people die."

"But who's to say that vision isn't something that happens when you're fifty. Or hell, seventy!"

"Because we both know you're fooling yourself if you think I'm going to live that long!"

The silence that followed was so complete that Sam swore he could hear The Dixie Chicks playing a few rooms over. He laughed hollowly. "I guess I'm a fool then."

Dean returned to packing his bag. "Guess so."

Sam shook his head, so angry that it hurt. Or maybe it was the other way round. Maybe he was so hurt that he was angry. "You actually believe that, don't you? That you're not going to die old. That the hunt is going to kill you, but you keep doing it. How dare you keep doing this if you really believe you're not going to survive it. You weren't upset that I saw that vision, you were upset I didn't tell you. Fuck you, Dean."

Dean's eyes hardened. "Dr Phil has a potty mouth, now?" He turned his back on Sam and flopped onto the bed, grabbing the remote off the desk.

Sam frowned, temporarily thrown from the argument: Dean seemed to have scored them a small television set while Sam had been scouting Susie's room. How did he manage these things? "Dean…" Sam ventured, but Dean cut him off.

"Do you mind?" He switched on the TV. "I'm trying to watch…" he frowned as a leather-clad woman popped onscreen. "Xena." He tossed the remote aside and settled back against the pillows.

They stayed like that for a while: Dean staring at the screen and Sam staring at a spot on the carpet. The spot was frayed and coloured grey. Just a small spot of discolored carpet. He wondered what had happened.

Sam finally glanced up at Dean, then looked away and chewed his lip. "I dreamt I killed you." He said it quietly. Maybe too quietly. Maybe Dean hadn't heard him. He half hoped he hadn't. He glanced up and found Dean watching him with an unreadable expression. Sam took a deep breath and remembered that day in the asylum, hoping that Dean wasn't doing the same. "I dreamt I walked up to you and…and snapped your neck. Just…snapped it. But it was just a dream." Sam waited for Dean's reaction, eyes again trained on that small spot of carpet.

"Is that all?" Dean said. "Jesus, Sammy, I thought you were hiding something important."

Sam looked up in surprise. Dean was staring at Sam with a raised eyebrow, looking annoyed. Not angry or shocked or betrayed. Annoyed.

"Is that _all?" _Sam said, feeling slightly indignant. "Gee, Dean, sorry it didn't live up to your expectations. Next time I'll throw in a dream about totaling the Impala."

"Don't even joke about that," Dean said, pointing a finger.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Sorry, yeah, where's my head at." He shook his head and laughed in disbelief. He was further thrown by the smirk forming on Dean's face. "What?"

"That's what's had your panties in a twist this whole time?" Dean scoffed. "You're not going to kill me."

"No, I know that! But…" Sam shook his head, confused. "What if I get possessed? What if Susie and Damien find a way to control me?"

"Please, I tricked your possessed ass once, I can do it again. The only way you're killing me is if I point the frickin' gun at my own heart and show you where the trigger is. And even then you might miss."

Sam found it completely surreal that he felt the urge to defend his ability to competently off his own brother. "You're not worried? At all? You don't think the dream had any meaning?"

Dean laughed. "Dude! No, I don't think it means anything. Do _you_, paranoia boy?"

Sam scratched his head. He didn't really know how to answer. "No," he finally said. "But…" he glanced at Dean.

"What?" Dean said, turning down the TV to drown out Xena's warrior cry. "You think _I'm _meant to be all hung up on this joke?"

"Yes!" Sam knew he'd never hurt Dean, but he'd been afraid to find out if Dean knew that too. He guess he had his answer. And trust Dean to make the answer almost insulting.

Dean rolled his eyes. "When did you mistake me for Mr. Supersensitive? That's your thing."

Sam found himself torn between relief, annoyance and disbelief. It was an interesting combination and he was certain his expression reflected the confusion. "You're an ass." He shook his head and flopped down on the bed.

"A popular one, apparently," Dean said. He hopped off the bed and grabbed his jacket, shrugging it on. "Susie wants it, Death wants it, and even your subconscious wants a piece. Should sell it on eBay."

Sam scoffed. "Where are you going?"

Dean nodded at the clock. "The Séance; it starts in twenty minutes."

Sam stood up, startled. "You're not actually going to that, are you?"

"You do realize we're, like, ghost hunters, right?"

Sam chewed his lip and wondered how to approach this next request. "Dean, Sherrie died after going to this séance thing. Something could be happening there to make the victims…not themselves. Maybe…maybe we should save it 'till the morning."

Dean froze in the process of checking to see if his student ID was still in his wallet. "Tell me you're kidding."

Sam sighed loudly and ran his hand over his face. "You have to stop being so blasé about this, Dean. That tattoo is a fucking target sign. You're a target. It's too dangerous now." Sam instantly knew he'd said the wrong thing. Telling Dean to stay away from danger was like telling a pyromaniac to stay away from fire.

Dean just looked at Sam for a second. He then shook his head and headed for the door. "I'm going to the séance."

"I won't come after you to save your ass when this backfires!" Sam called after him.

"Okay." The door shut behind him.

Sam waited for a second, tapping his foot impatiently, then sprung up and followed.

* * *

"This has to be the place." 

Dean rolled his eyes. "What tipped you off?" They'd walked well across campus until they'd found themselves in a block of unused, neglected buildings. At the back of this block stood a decaying, black mess of wood and granite. Apart from its charred appearance and collapsed rump, it looked more or less steady – like its collapsed planks and fire-bitten wood had, over time, molded into a new structural form, and now stood proud of its warped shape. But it was the loud music thumping the ground that drew the boys' attention.

"They séance in style," Dean said in approval.

He and Sam walked into the building after struggling with the door for a few seconds. The room inside was crowded with well over fifty students – some, who'd started the party a bit early, jumping around and bopping their heads crazily in tune with the music, while most stood in small circles with beer cans in their hands. The chatter almost overpowered the music.

"Dean," Sam said, nudging him and pointing to the floor. Under people's feet there was painted a large pentagram. "Pentagrams mean protection _from _evil."

Dean shrugged. "To you dorks, I guess failing an exam _is _evil."

"Dean!" a few loud, slurring voices called out. Dean looked over to see Joey and Chris maneuvering their way through the crowd, supporting each other as their feet tangled with every other step.

Dean grinned. "We're ten minutes late and you're both already wasted? I'm impressed."

"Got here early to set up," Chris said. "And you know what that means?" He swayed closer to Joey and poked him in the chest. "Tell him what that means, Joe."

Joey rolled his neck and stood up higher, mimicking a serious expression. "It means…The party STARTS EARLY!" He raised his beer can in the air and screamed in Chris' face, who screamed back happily.

Dean laughed and exchanged an amused look with Sam.

"Here, man," Joey said, grabbing a can from a stack near the door and tossing it to Dean.

"Dean…" Sam warned.

"Hey, man, we didn't forget you," Chris said. "Joe, pass this tall guy here a beer." Joey did as instructed and Sam caught it. Dean couldn't help smirking as Chris wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulders and leaned in close. "How's it going with the Susie chick? Got some yet, or do you need a few more beers?"

"Give the boy some more beers," Dean said, his smirk widening as Sam looked from the unopened beer in his hand, to the arm around his shoulder, to Dean's own smirking face, then as Sam's eyes widened when Joey returned with literally an armful of beers. "Jesus, Joey, you trying to kill my brother?"

"I understand unrequited love," Joey said, slurring and swaying a little, but looking so sad it almost killed Dean's amused buzz. Almost. "I understand you, man," Joey said, patting Sam's shoulder, a move that caused half the cans to tumble onto the floor and miss Sam's feet an inch. "BUT!" Joey said, loudly. "I learnt something today that's going to change my life." He swayed up to Dean and grabbed him around the shoulders, shaking him in a manly display of affection. "This guy here taught me something today, something priceless, something I'm going to frame: Confidence, man." Joey scooped up one of the cans from the floor and opened it. "To friendship," he toasted.

Chris let go of Sam's shoulders and toasted his own can. "To friendship," he whispered, choked up. "I love you guys." He practically fell into Dean and Joey, wrapping them in a tight hug.

"Save me," Dean said, peeking over Joey's and Chris' arms.

Sam smirked at him in return and shrugged, feigning innocence.

"Hey, look, it's Brenda," Dean lied. Joey whipped around with such speed that he almost bowled over the other two. His face had paled to an inch of its life. "Dude, my bad," Dean said. "Wasn't her after all." He pried Chris off him and edged towards Sam. "I should stay with my cousin; he sucks at these party things. If I'm not around, he might get confused and start writing an essay."

"Wow, poor guy," Joey said sadly.

"Yeah, poor little Sammy." Dean handed the beer back to Joey and pushed Sam in the opposite direction.

* * *

"Poor little me?" Sam said once they'd retreated to the other side of the room. "You know, you don't have to use me as an excuse, I can set up a playdate with those two if you want." 

Dean whacked him on the arm. "Dude, focus."

"Okay, okay," Sam said. "Party pooper," he added, unable to resist an opportunity to tease Dean with insults usually reserved for him.

"You know how I can kick you ass?"

"Fine, I'll stop." Sam glanced back over at Joey and Chris. "Actually, we can probably get some information out of them. We need to know when this séance is starting and what it involves. They seem to like you: see if they're not too drunk to answer some questions. I'll see what everyone else here knows."

"Wait," Dean said, stopping Sam with his hand. "You're leaving me alone with dumb and dumber? Dude, I can deal with sober frat boys, the drunken kind, nuh-uh."

Sam smirked. "I don't think they're in a frat."

"Not the point, smartass."

"Well, if you can't handle them-"

"Hey, who said anything about not handling it? I can handle anyone. It's just…" he looked longingly at one of the girls that walked passed. "I'd rather handle her. Why do you get to talk to the chicks?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "People are falling out of windows, you've been branded, I've had dreams about your death and yet _this _is what you're worried about?"

* * *

"So you can be an orc or a troll and beat the crap out of, theoretically, six million other players from all round the world?" Dean asked, impressed despite himself. 

"Yep," Joey beamed. "I can lend you my expansion packs if you want."

"And you get to hack them other players to pieces?"

"You two have been going on about World of Warcraft for almost twenty minutes," Chris moaned. "I'm so bored I think I'm sobering up." He stood up to get another beer but came crashing down. "Woah." He slid into a sitting position on the floor. "Maybe not."

Dean and Joey simultaneously grabbed one of Chris' arms each and hauled him back into his seat.

"Hey." Sam swatted Dean's arm, pulling up a chair. "The séance is about to start. They just chant a bit of Latin, no one knows where the chant came from, and then anyone in the crowd volunteers to cut their hand and offer a blood sacrifice to the pentagram."

"Big blood sacrifice?"

Sam shook his head. "Think Keira Knightley's sacrifice in Pirates. You find out anything?"

"Lover Boy!" Chris crawled over to Sam. "Thank god you're here." He clutched the arms of Sam's chair and looked at him pleadingly. "They won't stop talking about that warcraft game."

Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean.

"Yeah…it's been a bit difficult."

"I'll tell you guys a secret," Joey interrupted, bleary eyed. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "The séance is fake. My brother started the idea five years ago for a bit of fun. We're mostly just here for the booze."

Dean and Sam just nodded; no real surprise there.

"It is time!" a voice boomed. Everyone instantly quieted, backing away from the painted pentagram. Someone turned off the music. Dean and Sam peered around the bodies obstructing their view to find a student with glaring white sneakers, a tracksuit that drooped off his skinny frame, and wildly untamed hair, standing in the middle of the symbol, arms raised. "What time is it?"

"Clobbering time!" Chris shouted in a deep voice.

The guy sighed and dropped his arms. "No, Chris. Joey, keep him away from the beer before he throws up all over me like last time."

Dean smirked, looking over at Sam, ready to make a joke at Sam's Stanford-days expense, but was surprised to see Sam's face lined with concern. His eyes were trained on the pentagram.

"Time for the chant!" the guy boomed, raising his arms back into the air.

Chris and Joey jumped up, having planned this next bit, and started singing loudly: "Banana banana bo bana be bi bo banana Ghost Girl banana bo bana…"

"Oh good Lord," Dean muttered.

The guy standing in the pentagram sighed again. "Fine, we're skipping the chant and going straight to the sacrifice. Volunteer?"

"Dean!" Joey shouted, slapping Dean's back.

"Huh?"

Sam's head whipped in his direction, looking just as startled.

"Dean! Dean! Dean!" Joey and Chris started chanting, grabbing an arm each and pulling him into the middle of the circle.

"Uh, no, really, choose someone else," Dean said, turning to leave the circle, but Joey pulled him back.

"You deserve this, dude. Your fifteen minutes of glory."

Dean was well aware that everyone's eyes were on him and he shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah…see, the blood sacrifice thing? Not as funny when it actually works. We've all seen the movies."

The guy with the white sneakers walked over to a small cabinet covered in chip packets and empty beer cans. He grabbed a key from his pocket and unlocked the cabinet, removing a small pocketknife. He held it carefully in his hands and walked back to Dean, holding the knife out to him. "Take your sacred utensil and prick thy finger, letting thy blood drop to the ground, thus feeding the scared symbol of the…uh…sacred symbol, yeah."

Dean picked up the knife and peered at it closely. A picture of Betty Boop stared back at him. "Oh, Geez." Holding onto the blade end, he offered it back. "Not happening, Jeeves."

"Dude!" Chris said, "don't be a party pooper." He slapped Dean on the back, intending nothing more than a manly display of support, but in his drunken state he hit harder than expected and Dean stumbled, the blade slipping in his hand and cutting his finger.

Dean stared at the cut incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me. Shit like this actually happens?" Annoyed, he shook the blood from his finger.

* * *

Sam watched from the side of the circle. Dean's lips were moving, he was muttering something, but Sam wasn't listening. Sam didn't even think he was breathing. All he could do was stare at the drops of blood as they hit the wood floor. He shook his head slowly, trying to dissuade his mind from replaying for him, over and over, this image in front of him. Of the blood hitting the floor just as it had in his vision. He was vaguely aware of Dean and the others looking around, waiting for an entity to emerge or the floor to shake or something, but only vaguely. The shock had numbed him to everything but the realization that his vision was creeping into reality. 

"Told you frat boys were bad news," Dean said, walking back to Sam as the séance thingamajig was declared a bust. "Klutziness is more dangerous than evil." Dean frowned. "Sam? You okay?"

"Do I look okay?" Sam snapped, not having intended to but finding that anger was the only emotion strong enough to withhold against the realization that Death's clock was ticking and Sam had no clue how to stop it.

"No, you don't, that's why I asked," Dean snapped in return. "You look like shit. Menopausal shit."

Sam glanced at Dean, instantly regretting yelling. "Sorry." He paused for a second. "And ew, Dean."

The music halted for a second as the track changed. Sam frowned as the room's sounds were suddenly amplified. What had Joey said? About catching the tail end of some chanting when the music stopped? He turned to look at the wall opposite in realization. "There's a hidden room."

"What?" Dean yelled, cupping his hand around his ear as loud music again filled the room.

Sam just grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him in the right direction. "There's a room behind that wall."

"Huh," Dean said, but he seemed far more interested in batting away Sam's hands and smoothing down his shirt.

"There has to be," Sam continued. "Susie, or Damien, or whoever, they'd need someplace away from the dorms to perform their spells. Joey said this place is never empty – that people are always hanging out here. They wouldn't want to risk someone hearing the chanting and striking suspicion so they use these séances, these parties, to shield the chanting. There's a hidden room somewhere."

"It's Damien doing the chanting," Dean said.

Sam looked at him, startled. "How do you know?"

Dean shrugged, grabbing a handful of chips from the table next to them. "Genius insight, hunter instinct, big-assed brains, take your pick," he said, voice muffled by the chips. "And he's sitting over there."

Sam whipped around to find Damien sitting by the stereo, one hand propped across it lazily, fingers drumming, while the other fiddled with the volume.

"Not really a Goth's crowd, so I figure he's here to keep an eye on his bat cave." Dean turned back to the table of food. "Ooh, animal crackers."

Sam instinctively stepped closer to the wall, not wanting to alert Damien of their presence. "We need to find that room."

Dean nodded, watching Damien closely. He brushed the crumbs from his hands and stepped forward. "I'm going to go talk to him."

Before Sam could stop him, Dean had weaved through the crowd and was standing in front of Damien. Sam quickly followed, wondering how the hell Dean had survived 27 years.

"If you want me to change tunes - no," Damien said on their approach, yelling to be heard over the music but not looking up at them.

"We don't," Dean said.

Damien sighed and glanced up. "Yeah?" He squinted, eyes roaming them up and down. "I've met you two, haven't I?"

"Yeah, your girl knows us," Dean said.

Sam felt strangely excluded, watching Dean and Damien stare each other down. He didn't like the small smile forming on Damien's face.

Damien laughed suddenly. He leaned back and grabbed a new bottle of beer from a stack near the stereo. "Want to see a party trick?"

Sam instinctively backed up, placing himself in front of Dean, who frowned and lightly shoved Sam out of his way.

Damien placed the bottle against one of his heavily tattooed arms and used his forearm to pop open the beer. He smiled at them lazily, taking a sip. "Pretty cool, huh? See you boys round." Neither missed the way his gaze lingered on Dean. He then slinked into the crowd, bumping into the shoulders of anyone who didn't move for him.

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam asked once Damien was out of earshot.

Dean was still watching Damien's back, an odd expression on his face. "I wanted to see if this whole tattoo and death thing was personal for him as well as Susie. Oh, it's personal." He seemed to shake himself and turned to look at Sam. "The guy hates my own, personal guts."

Sam just nodded. He could see the wheels turning in Dean's head, but he knew not to push him. Dean would let him know when he was ready. You couldn't push Dean or he clamped up. He liked things on his terms: they so rarely were. "We have to find that room."

They pushed through the crowd and hurried outside to the back of the building. They started banging their fists along the wall, listening, content in the knowledge that the music within would drown out the sound. After what seemed like an eternity of knocking, Sam's fist finally echoed against the wall. He then turned to Dean, wanting to make sure Dean had heard.

Dean started feeling along the wall with his hands. "Door…door…C'mon, open sesame already."

Sam was fast losing patience with this whole hunt, and now they were meant to waste more time finding a freaking door? More time he needed to spend on working out how to prevent his vision from coming true? _Screw it, _Sam thought, and backed up, bracing himself. He kicked the wall as hard as he could. The impact shot up his leg, jarring his hip. The old wood gave way under his foot.

"Way to go, Sammy." Dean slapped him on the back. "Unexpected, but in a good way. I'm rubbing off on you."

"Is there anything you don't take credit for?"

"Your fashion sense."

They started kicking through the rest of the wood, yanking away rotting planks to reveal a smaller, windowless room beyond. Sam stepped through first, eyes instantly drawn to the walls. More specifically, to the blue symbols that sat at slanted angles across the walls. He turned in circles, watching as symbols flashed endlessly: They were painted in every inch of space. Just like in his vision. Just like that blood splattering the ground.

He didn't know if he should feel panic or fear or anger or the fucking urge to laugh. All he really knew was that he wasn't meant to feel this - nothing, numb. But it was all he could manage at the moment.

That is, until Dean angrily threw something to the ground and ran his hands through his short hair.

Sam quickly knelt by the medium sized box that Dean had tossed away. The word 'Subjects' was scrawled on the box's side in black felt tip. Spilling out from it were photographs. Hundreds of them. Of students, young and old, of…Sherrie! With a giant cross marked over her face. Sam was startled to find that most of the photos –the people in the photos – had giant crosses drawn over them. Sam quickly sifted through the images. His hand froze, finding itself hovering over a photograph of two very familiar faces. It was him and Dean walking down the street on the day they'd first arrived in this town. Sam swallowed hard and forced his hand to pick through the remaining photographs. They were all of him and Dean, some with them together, some with them alone. All shot at a distance, all focused on their faces.

"You're in those photos. We're both in those photos," Dean said quietly. Sam looked up at him and saw the anger glinting in his eyes. It almost scared him. "This tattoo doesn't mean a fucking thing. They're after both of us."

Sam looked down at the photos again, feeling a chill. "We knew that, though."

"It was just meant to be _me._ It was just meant to be me," Dean repeated, striding out.

Sam hastily scooped the photos back into the box, slamming down the lid and tucking it under his arm as he ran after Dean. He almost stumbled through the makeshift entrance, too preoccupied with searching for Dean to pay attention to his steps.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, seeing his brother striding across the lawn. "Wait!" He sprinted to catch up, relieved that Dean stopped for him, even if reluctantly. "Where are you going?" he asked once he caught up, breathless. He already knew the answer.

"I'm ending this."

"How?" Sam asked, trying to be the voice of reason.

"How do you think?" Dean lifted his shirt to reveal a gun tucked into his waistband.

"Dean! Are you insane? You can't bring a loaded weapon around drunk students!"

"And you're insane not to!" Dean grabbed the box out of Sam's arms and knocked open the lid, grabbing a fistful of the photos. "Did you see these? The faces aren't crossed out for decoration, Sam, they were killed. And we're both in these photos! _You're _in these photos, Sam!"

"Dean," Sam tried to soothe, taking the box from him. "I know, okay? I know this seems bad, but you can't just shoot someone in a crowded dorm building. You'll be hauled to prison. And Susie's human, Dean. She's human. So maybe Damien is too."

"I don't give a damn!" Dean hit the box from Sam's hands so that it crashed to the ground. He turned and stormed away.

"Wait, just wait!" Sam racked his brain for something to stop Dean making the biggest mistake of his life. God, he wanted this to end as bad as Dean did, but this wasn't the way. There was so much they still needed to work out, to understand in time to stop Sam's vision seeping into reality. And Sam refused to let Dean commit a murder in his name, something Dean would hold with him for the rest of his life despite what he'd say in the contrary. Because, really, Sam knew Dean was doing this because he'd seen Sam's photos in that box. Dean was always playing the protective brother, even if it meant walking into the line of fire and flipping off the enemy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Lessons - Chapter 6:**

Sam grabbed the pictures and stuffed them back into the box. "Dean!" He caught up, grabbing Dean by the elbow.

Dean yanked free his arm. "What, Sam? You want to talk about this? They're evil bitches that the cops wouldn't know how to handle. Are you willing to risk more lives just to keep your fucking conscience clean?" The accusation seemed to swallow some of Dean's anger and a flicker of guilt crossed his face. "I'm going to take care of this myself. Your Jiminy Cricket has nothing to worry about."

"Would you just listen and put the action hero, guns blazing thing on hold? For once. There are hundreds of photos in here. Hundreds." Sam rummaged through the box and pulled out a yellowing picture that looked three or four decades old. He held it up for Dean to see. "Look how far back they go. They can't be alone in this. Susie's what, twenty one, twenty two? And Damien only a few years older. Look at this picture, Dean. There's more going on here."

Dean sighed and shrugged, barely glancing at the photo. "I don't care. I don't care, Sam. Susie's confessed her involvement, that's good enough for me. I'm not just going to stand by and wait for someone else to die."

"Half an hour. Can you stand by for half an hour? Just let me do a bit of research -"

Dean tried to cut him off.

"Just half an hour," Sam said. "Come on, it takes less time to fix your hair in the mornings."

Dean gave Sam a dry look. "Someone's mistaking me for him." Dean glanced at Sam's tousled hair. "Maybe not." His banter sounded half-hearted though. He sighed and kicked at a tuff of grass. Glancing up after a few minutes, he looked more annoyed than anything else. "Half an hour, not a minute more."

Sam smiled. "Not a minute more."

* * *

Dean paced the small length of their dorm, listening to Sam clicking away at the laptop. Photos were scattered around Sam on the bed, but Dean couldn't look at them. Sam was in one of those photos. Sam was in one of those fucking photos and was crazy if he thought Dean was just going to let that slide. He could feel the gun's cold metal pressing against his skin. Another ten minutes and he was out of here. Another ten minutes and this hunt was over. 

Dean slowed his pacing and shut his eyes momentarily. He was about to kill a human being, evil or not. He was about to stand in front of another person – living, breathing person - aim his gun and fire. He wasn't about to banish a spirit or exorcise a demon, he was about to take a life and hope karma wasn't watching. But the guilt was just something he'd have to deal with _after_ Sam was safe from those psychos. He'd known for a long time that there were few lengths he wouldn't go to for his family.

"Wow," Sam said, interrupting Dean's thoughts. "Looks like we've found our non-human for you to go Rambo on."

"What are you talking about?"

Sam turned the laptop to face Dean. The screen displayed a newspaper article retrieved from one of the school archives. The article was old - from the late twenties. The heading claimed suicide on campus, but Sam was pointing at the photo of the curious crowd. "See him?"

Dean squinted and let his eyes travel over each face. His eyebrows rose as he focused on a face near the back. "It's the boyfriend… minus the nose ring."

"Damien, circa 1928," Sam said.

"Huh. Why are they always stupid enough to get photographed and end up in the newspaper?"

"I don't know, but Damien's either found the fountain of youth, or he's the not so human ringleader behind the string of not so suicidal deaths."

"How many more have there been?"

"For almost a hundred years there've been one or two suicides a year from colleges in this area. All the same way."

"They jumped?"

"They jumped."

"A hundred years?" Dean said. "Jesus. We're trolling through the paper every day for this kind of weird shit, how'd we miss the hundred year suicide thing?"

"No one's made the connection between them all. And it's been quiet for the past few years." Sam tapped a few keys and brought up a new article. "Six years ago, one of the victims – Perry Jones – survived her fall and told police she didn't jump, that some strange trance befell her and she found that she couldn't control what she was doing. The police believe she was drugged, which brought them to suspect Perry's roommate."

"Why?"

"The roommate was the last person Perry remembers before going into the trance and jumping. The roommate confessed straight away. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"She confessed believing she was the one who had tried to kill Perry. But not by drugging her. She said she woke up in her bed a few hours after Perry's fall with barely any recollection of the past _year. _She said the last thing she remembered was meeting this guy she thought was 'cute' during Orientation and then waking up a year later. Apparently she only remembers bits and pieces of the past year, including…get this… 'tapping into her psychic ability to render people's minds more susceptible to external influence'."

"Like what the Vulcans do?"

Sam snorted. "Mind control, yeah. She thought she was psychic. She ended up in a psych ward and no other suicides fitting this pattern have been reported since. Until now. I think the official attention spooked Damien away. But he's back."

A niggling suspicion began to grow in Dean's stomach and he sat down on the bed's edge. "Found anything on Susie?"

Sam shut the laptop and put it aside, scooping up the photos as he talked. Was he avoiding Dean's eyes? "Her birth certificate says she's twenty one, I've found pictures of her in both elementary and highschool. She won a scholarship to this college." He packed the photos neatly into the box.

Dean clenched his jaw. "Shit. I was going to kill an innocent girl. Damien's done some possession or spell thing to control her, hasn't he? She's not a heartless bitch, she just chose to get the wrong guy's attention. Who knows how long she's been under his 'turn-me-Goth-and-manic' spell."

Sam closed the box lid and looked up at Dean. "You didn't know."

"This Damien dick, he's using those symbols we found in that room to possess these girls?" Dean asked, ignoring Sam's attempts to ease his guilt.

Sam shrugged slightly. "I don't know. I can't find any information on them. I guess they're used to keep him from dying, or yeah, maybe to help him possess these girls and control their abilities."

"So this Susie chick really is a walking talking crystal ball that can astral project? That's not Damien's influence?"

"I think she was just born with the ability and Damien's exploiting it. She probably didn't even know she was able to control the astral projection thing."

"Well, it stops here. Find his dorm number."

Sam sighed and accessed the school's dorm lists. "I still don't know how you think you can shoot someone in the head and not get noticed," Sam muttered, then frowned, tapping the keys with more determination. "I can't access his information."

"Try again."

"I can't. It isn't listed."

Dean sighed. Give him hacking scarecrows or homicidal paintings any day. "Well, you just lost your Geek Boy status."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Gee, I'm heart broken."

Dean sighed again and flopped backwards onto his bed. "So, what are we meant to do now? We don't know anything about those symbols or how to break Damien's hold on Susie. We're kinda stuck between a rock and your eighth-grade baking attempt."

Dean ducked the pillow that Sam tossed at him, then scooped it up and popped it under his own pillow.

"We should get some sleep and look at the whole thing fresh tomorrow," Sam said, walking over to Dean and yanking his pillow out from under Dean's head. Sam shoved the photos under the bed and kicked off his shoes before flipping off the light and settling in under the covers.

_Great,_ Dean thought. Another night waiting to see if they'd be attacked or entranced or tattooed with frickin' unicorns and cherubs.

Dean lay in his bed all night, staring at the ceiling and refusing to let sleep touch him. He listened to Sam's breaths instead, letting their rhythmic rise and fall reassure him that death hadn't encroached on their lives again. Not yet, anyway. And Dean would be damned if he'd let it. He remained awake in his bed until the sun's first tentative rays snuck through the blinds, then he left Sam sleeping and went to shower.

When he returned, Sam was gone.

* * *

The door to Susie's dorm was open a crack, even though light barely crept through the sky and the halls were eerily quiet as students slept away hangovers or study hang-ups or whatever the reason college kids seemed incapable of waking up early. Holding back his anger and panic until he was safe from prying ears, Dean nudged open the door. 

Dean's stomach flipped when he saw Susie sitting at her desk, using a razor blade to carve symbols into her arm. Blood ran from the shallow cuts, dripping from her forearm and staining the carpet below. For a second, he'd irrationally thought the blood was Sam's.

"You boys have no manners," she said, yet to look up at him. "You never knock."

From where he stood, Dean saw her lips curl into a smile. His eyes hardened and he strode into the room, shutting the door behind him and grabbing Susie by her throat, taking her by surprise. He slammed her against the wall, tipping over the chair with a loud crash.

Eyes wide, Susie raised the arm holding the razor, but Dean was too quick. With his free hand he grabbed her wrist and squeezed until the blade fell from her fingers. "Where's Sam? Tell me!"

Susie looked scared. For the first time since he'd met her, she looked scared. She still refused to answer.

Dean pulled the gun from his waistband and pressed the barrel against her forehead, tightening his grip on her neck until she turned red. "You tell me where he is, or God help me…"

He meant it.

His finger twitched on the trigger. He meant it.

Susie's eyes watered and she strained against his hold to turn her head and nod at the fresh cuts on her arm. Dean glanced at them. "That room with the symbols? He's there?"

She just nodded, gargled sounds coming from her throat as she struggled to breathe.

Dean let go and stepped back, sheaving the gun. Susie fell forward, one hand flying to her throat while the other grabbed the wall as her feet failed to support her.

"He better be there and he better be unharmed or, sweetheart, you'll know what pain really feels like." Dean turned and flung open the door.

"Wait!" Susie lunged forward and grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his skin. "Please, don't do it. Please." Her eyes bore into his. They were dark brown, almost black, but Dean saw the fear in them. Or maybe it was his own reflected back at him.

Dean shrugged off her arm, running from the building.

* * *

Damien was sitting beside a stereo, fiddling with the stations. With Damien's attention elsewhere, Sam tried again to free his wrists of the ropes binding them. The knots refused to loosen, and Sam wasn't even going to try to free his ankles without the use of his hands. He breathed heavily through his nose, his mouth gagged by an old cloth. He didn't know what was worse – the taste of dirt and grit against his lips or the pounding emanating from the side of his face where Damien had knocked him out. Where the hell was Dean? 

Sam struggled against the rope again, but only managed to chafe his wrists. Goddamn it; he was so sick of being the captured one.

Damien settled on 'Paint it Black' by the Rolling Stones and hopped up. He started scooping up half empty beer cans, chugging what was left before chucking them into a corner. "Beer?"

Sam glared at him.

Damien grinned. "Oh, right, you're a bit tied up right now." He chuckled and knelt in front of Sam, looping his finger around the gag and pulling it away from Sam's mouth. "Beer?" he offered again.

"Won't desecrating your shrine with beer and rock music get you struck down?"

"Not religious," Damien answered, standing back up. "There's only one god I believe in: Me."

"You think you're a god?" Sam glanced around the room for the umpteenth time. The makeshift entry that he and Dean had created was haphazardly boarded up. The floor was littered with chip packets and half empty bottles and cans. There were a few cardboard boxes sitting neatly in the corner, but nothing that Sam could cut himself free with.

"In here I am." Damien casually strolled around the room, his fingers gliding over the symbols. "These little babies make sure my heart keeps pumping and my blood keeps flowing."

"So you can stay young forever."

"Something like that." Damien tapped the symbols. "When I'm this close to them, they make me fucking invincible. In this room, I _am_ God."

"Am I meant offer a goat? What do you want with me?"

Damien walked up to Sam and slid down the wall next to him until they were sitting side by side. He leaned his head rest against the wall, shutting his eyes lazily like they were just two students chatting. "With you? Nothing."

Fuck, he was bait. "Dean's not going to fall for this. He's not just going to walk into a trap."

Damien pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open. He tapped it lightly against Sam's cheek, smiling as Sam flinched. "I think you'll find he will."

Sam tried to ignore the feeling of cold steel on his face. "Why do you and Susie hate him so much?"

Damien's eyes flashed in anger. But the emotion disappeared just as quickly. He pulled the knife away and started fiddling with it. "There are always reasons," he said, staring absently at the knife. "You've been to college, right?"

The question was random. It unsettled Sam more than it should have. He looked away and refused to answer; he wasn't going to let himself get sucked into any of this guy's games. Not while waiting in the mouse trap set for his brother.

"Yeah, you're one of us," Damien said, appraising him.

Anger rose in Sam like bile in his throat.

Damien laughed softly. Everything he did was soft or slow. Like a freakin' cat. "Apart from the 'evil' thing, of course."

Sam bristled. Dean was the only person he tolerated patronizing him. And only on his good days. "Is your plan to talk me to death?"

Damien just smirked. "We're academics, Sammy. We understand that those shit-faced ideas like good and evildon't exist. There are always reasons and no one goes out of their way to choose the wrong ones, the 'evil' ones. It's just that the smart people, like you and me, know that sometimes you gotta give up certain things to reach goals. In the end…" His eyes turned glassy and he seemed to retreat into his mind for a second. "In the end, one or two people forgotten or crushed on the way means nothing in the pursuit of progress. You get that, right?"

Sam's anger was growing, perhaps irrationally given he knew he was talking to a murderer, but it was there nonetheless, swelling inside his chest. "Is that your excuse?"

"Is that yours?"

Sam was startled by his response, but he quickly wiped the confused expression from his face. "You kill people. Innocent people. I don't care if you're a psycho or a fuckin' political science student. That's inexcusable and we're going to stop you."

"He's going to die, you know," Damien said. Not cruelly. Just a statement. "Think you'll remember him ten years from now? Think the world will? And if they do, will it be the good or just the bad?" Damien looked away again. "The world has a tendency to do that, you know, just remember the bad."

A chill ran down Sam's spine. Why did he get the suspicion this was no longer about Dean? "You and Susie seem to think _I'm _going to kill him. If you're relying on that scenario, I wouldn't hold my breath. If you have any."

Damien smiled slightly. "You're not going to kill your brother, Sam." He started to carve the date into the floor.

"I know!" Sam said, annoyed that even the bad guy felt the need to laugh at his concern over the dream. "You and Susie were the ones who wanted me to believe that, remember?"

"You ever take any Cinema Studies?"

"What?" Sam said, growing more frustrated.

"Hitchcock was big on the whole MacGuffin thing. It means -"

"I know what it means," Sam cut in. "Why are you telling me this?"

Damien finished carving the date and began twirling the knife in his fingers. "The MacGuffin: a plot device that furthers the story but is actually irrelevant. A red herring, in other words. It's meant to keep the audience all preoccupied with something that, really, has nothing to do with anything."

Sam grew cold. "The dream meant nothing…"

"The dream meant nothing," Damien repeated, grinning.

Sam's frown deepened. "You were just playing with my head. You…you gave me that dream just to, what? Watch me squirm? What the hell was the point of that?" Sam's voice rose. This was fucking ridiculous! This whole hunt was ridiculous!

"There wasn't a point; that's the point."

"No…" Sam said slowly, thinking. "There's always a point. Red herrings are used to distract the audience. To hide the real clues, the…the twist ending…" Sam's mind ran back through everything they'd encountered so far. He looked at Damien. His head was spinning a little. "Dean…he's going to kill you… That's what Susie saw. That's what she knows he did! Or will do. That's what you're both trying to stop."

Damien's smile tightened. He held up the knife. "Not trying; _will_."

Just then, the planks covering the hole burst open in a spray of wood and Dean appeared, gun drawn.

Dread curled through Sam's chest. _No.  
_

* * *

Damien grabbed Sam by the collar and pulled him to his feet, wrapping one arm around his chest while the other pressed a knife against his throat. Dean felt his chest constrict.

"Let him go." He pointed the gun but didn't dare pull the trigger with Sam so close.

"No," Damien said.

Sam gasped as the knife broke skin and a thin trail of blood ran down his neck.

Dean swallowed, trying to not let his panic show. "What do you want?" he asked through clenched teeth, clutching the gun and glaring at Damien like he could telekinetically torch the guy.

"I want you, Dean."

"Want to rephrase that, pervert."

Damien chuckled. "I want to talk to you. Civilly. Don't make me turn this into a blood bath."

Dean glanced at Sam. They locked eyes.

"Dean, Susie saw you killing him in a vision, don't trust him!"

"Shut up!" Damien tightened his hold on Sam.

Dean's grip on the gun tightened in response, but he let the words sink in, pulling with them the memory of Susie screaming at him: _I know what you did and I won't let you…_ Dean smirked. "I suspected."

Sam looked surprised.

"Not as dumb as you look, huh?" Damien said.

"Hey, now, you've already got my brother in a stronghold; don't go insulting my looks too. How do I do it?" Dean crossed his fingers mockingly. "Please say beheading, please beheading."

Damien smiled and shoved Sam away. Sam stumbled, his feet bound too tightly to catch him. He fell to the ground with a thud.

Dean didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger. A loud shot rang out and Damien stumbled backwards, grunting a little and shutting his eyes in pain. But he didn't fall. He didn't even bleed. A cold began to creep up Dean's spine as he watched Damien right himself and look down at his shirt where a hole sat in the fabric. A perfect round hole: a perfect shot. Right above the heart.

Dean glanced to the side at the sound of rustling fabric. Sam had awkwardly pulled himself into a sitting position and was staring at Damien – and the gun shot – with a frown that Dean was sure matched his own.

"Nice shot. Now watch this." Damien pulled down the collar of his shirt and Dean watched as the bloodless wound in Damien's chest sealed itself. "Cool, huh?" He poked a finger through the hole left in his shirt and frowned. "Should've asked you to aim for my head, though. Oh well."

"So you really are like a bug that won't die," Dean said, backing up and stalling for time as he analyzed his options. "These symbols, they keep you alive. Well, big fucking whoop. There are always ways to kill someone. Just gotta think outside the box." Dean's eyes traveled to the gap in the wall, then to Sam, trying to work out how he was going to get them out of there.

"Told you this room makes me a god," Damien said to Sam.

Without warning, and with a speed Dean hadn't expected, Damien ran up to Dean and grabbed the gun from his hands, smacking it across his face. Hard. Dean's head whipped to the side and stars exploded in front of his eyes. The next thing he knew, Dean was on the ground, staring at a dirt floor that wavered in tune with the pain pulsating through his head.

"Dean!"

"I'm fine, Sammy." Dean's voice slurred as he pushed himself up with one arm and gingerly felt his cheekbone.

Before he'd recovered, Damien wound back his fist and struck Dean in the face with the strength of a man ten times his size. As if in slow motion, Dean tipped backwards and teetered for a moment before the weight of his throbbing jaw forced his body into a fall that gathered speed until he hit the ground in a spray of dirt.

"Hey!" Sam yelled.

Dean lay there for a second, dazed. Blood welled in his mouth.

"Maybe he should have brought Joey and Chris along," Damien said. "Make this rescue more of a joke, huh, Sammy?"

Anger coursed through Dean, eclipsing the pain and fueling a reckless streak he thought he'd long ago restrained. Dean sprang up and plowed into Damien's waist, tackling him to the ground with a loud 'oomph'.

"Don't call him that."

Dean held Damien down by the neck and reeled back his fist, but Damien caught Dean's wrist mid blow and threw Dean off him with a force that sent Dean flying across the room. Dean braced himself for impact but couldn't help crying out as he collided with the wall. He slumped to the floor.

From beyond the spots still exploding in front of his eyes, Dean saw Damien stride towards him. Dean scrambled backwards, feeling the ground for some sort of weapon and forcing himself to ignore the pounding in his head.

Damien grabbed the lapels of Dean's shirt and lifted him with an ease that scared Dean. "Are you done playing the hero?"

"I'll never be done." Dean swung his fist, connecting with Damien's throat. Damien instantly let go, stumbling backwards in a coughing fit. "The heroes get all the chicks." Dean grinned and ran for Sam, but Damien used his speed to cut Dean off. Too slow to duck the blow that connected with his mouth, Dean again found himself splayed on the ground.

Damien slammed his foot down on Dean's neck, cutting off his air. Dean gasped and tried to pry the foot away but Damien pressed harder, almost crushing Dean's windpipe. Panic ripped through Dean as his lungs screamed and his mind started to drift away, leaving only the agony of an airless body behind.

"Stop it!" Sam yelled, somewhere in the distance. Dean wanted to turn and offer him reassurance, but he couldn't. He couldn't move and he could barely see beyond the black creeping across his vision.

"Now that I have your attention, we need to talk," Damien said, eyes boring into Dean's. "And you need to listen carefully. Can you do that?" The pressure on his neck increased and Dean nodded. He hadn't even heard what Damien said, but anything to breathe again. The body was selfish like that. Damien removed his foot.

Without feeling or controlling it, Dean started coughing and sucking in air. When his lungs were satisfied, Dean turned to the side and let his head rest against the cool earth as feeling crept back into his limbs and his mind returned from the black fog it had escaped beneath. He lay like that for a few seconds, cringing as the pain returned to his face. He could already feel bruises forming and his skin swelling. Reluctantly, Dean pushed himself into a sitting position.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it," Dean said, too sore and tired to stand up or back away. He didn't really see the point of trying: his last three attempts had landed him right back here on the floor anyway. So he just sat there, looping one arm around his knee and leaning his head down against it. "I just usually skip the bad guy speeches in films and go straight to the action. You don't come with a remote, do you?"

"Dean," Sam hissed. Guess he didn't approve of Dean telling the bad guy to just get it over with. Dean looked over to roll his eyes, but saw that the rope binding Sam's wrists was stained red. He kept quiet.

"I'm not going to kill you," Damien said.

That got Dean's attention.

"Don't get me wrong," Damien said. "I want to. If you trip and fall down a flight of stairs, I'll be laughing, but I'm not going to be the one to push you. I'm giving you a way out."

Dean scrambled up and glared. "What the hell are you talking about?" He started backing away, closer to Sam.

Damien smiled and rested his hand on the wall behind Dean, leaning close. "I want you to take your brother and leave. Leave my college, leave my town. Leave. And don't ever come back." He pulled back and straightened Dean's jacket, glancing at Sam, who was seething. "You do that, and you and Sam here will be safe. You don't…" his grip tightened. "You'll both regret it."

"Why?" Dean asked, anger coursing through him, spurred on by the threat to Sam's life and by the pain pounding through his head.

Damien watched him for a second them backed away, picking up a half-empty packet of chips and popping a few in his mouth. "I'm guessing you already know about my girl's abilities."

"She likes to brag."

"I'm guessing she also told you about your imminent death?"

Dean felt a sting. His imminent death. The words were flung so casually that they actually hit this time. He felt Sam's eyes on him. He turned and offered a cocky smile and a quick roll of the eyes. Imminent death? Pfft. Been there, done that. "Not before you, evidently," Dean said, turning back to Damien. "That's why Susie branded me. She doesn't want to lose her boy toy. Too bad she'll be banging a new one soon."

Damien curled his fingers into fists and anger sparked through his eyes, almost turning them red. In a blur of color, he was in front of Dean, slamming him against the wall. He bore his teeth in a snarl. "She brands them, I kill them." He pulled away, composing himself. "Remember feeling all hung-over when you thought she was a big scary ghost? When she astral projects, that's one of her skills. She can slow down people's senses enough so that when I come into this room and do a bit of black magic, I can extend these symbols' power to whoever has The Mark - that spearhead tattoo she brands our victims with - and with their senses all slowed down thanks to Susie, I can get into their heads and make them jump. Easy as pie." Damien walked to the other side of the room, rummaging through a cardboard box. "I'm not telling you this to fit the idiot bad guy mold," he continued, voice muffled as he searched. "I'm telling you this because I can't control who I make jump. Whoever has the tattoo may as well kiss their life goodbye."

"You could always, gee, I don't know, _not_ kill anyone to begin with!" Sam said.

Dean smirked.

Damien looked up at Sam and smiled like one would to a hapless moron. "The deaths play an important role in our project. They'd be honored to know they died for a good cause. A project that, for God knows why, he wants you and your brother a part of. That's the only reason Dean's still alive. He doesn't want him dead. Not yet."

Dean grew cold.

"What project?" Sam asked.

"He's willing to risk _my _life!" Damien said, ignoring Sam's question. "I get it, I do. I know the project's important and that you and your brother bring a whole new dimension to it, but _I'm_ not willing to risk my life." His attention turned to Dean. "I wouldn't disobey him, so I'm not going to kill you, but I want you gone. You'll die soon, anyway, Susie saw it. But I won't go down with you."

Dean glanced around the room again, trying to see an option he'd missed. "What do I get out of this deal? You said it yourself, I'm branded. The next time you and that witch decide to play god, I'm a stain on the sidewalk."

"I know." Damien pulled out a carving knife and lighter from the box. "She shouldn't have branded you; she was just trying to help me. I'm going to fix that."

Dean's eyes widened.

"You're going to burn it off?" Sam sounded horrified. With good reason!

"Dude, I'll take my chances with the sidewalk!" An involuntary shudder ran through Dean's body as Damien flicked on the lighter and began heating the knife.

"Can't let you do that," Damien said as he continued to heat the knife. "He doesn't know Susie branded you. I can't let him know; Susie doesn't deserve to get in trouble." He looked up at Dean, the heat from the lighter making his eyes glow. "She was just trying to protect me. From you." Damien smiled slowly. The bastard was enjoying this.

"You're sick," Sam spat.

"Yeah, at least fork out the cash for laser removal if you're going to tattoo me without, you know, permission!"

"Why a spear? Just tell us that."

Dean glanced down at his brother. "Gee, Sam, you're really focused on the important issue here."

"Children, hush," Damien said, walking up to Dean.

"This should be fun," Damien said.

Dean watched Damien warily, keeping his distance. He risked a glance at Sam and the exit but regretted it a second later when a blur in the corner of his eye became Damien's body slamming him to the ground.

"Get away from him!"

Damien grabbed Dean's neck and tried to keep him still, but Dean battered away the knife and managed to shove Damien off him. He scrambled up and kicked Damien in the head.

Damien rolled away and scooped up the knife. He strode back to the box.

Dean ran to Sam and pulled him to his feet. There was no time to untie him; just needed to get him out of here. But, damn, Sam's bound ankles were going to be a problem.

"Son of a bitch." Dean quickly bent and started tugging at the knots.

"Just get out of here," Sam said.

Dean ignored him. "Ow!" He looked up incredulously, rubbing the spot on his head where Sam had whacked him with his bound hands. "What the hell kinda thanks is that?"

"Just go, Dean! Stop being a stubborn idiot, get out of here."

"_You _stop being a stubborn idiot." Dean glanced over his shoulder as Damien pulled from the box a long, thin, wood spear with a sharpened head. Unable to untie the knots, Dean sprang up and grabbed Sam around the shoulders, half carrying, half dragging him towards the exit.

"Stop moving!" Damien yelled. In a blur of movement he was in front of Dean, shoving Sam away and slamming Dean against the wall. He reared back the spear and thrust it through Dean's shoulder, beneath his collar bone, pinning him to the wall.

Dean screamed.


	7. Chapter 7

It's going to be ten chapters all up.

I must WARN that there is violence and blood and language.

Thank you again toeveryone who's been reading and reviewing. You guys rock!

**  
Lessons: CHAPTER 7**

The Rolling Stones were still playing in the background. Loud enough to drown out his brother's scream. He guessed that was the point. The spear had torn through Dean's shoulder, clear through, like his skin was nothing but cloth. It had even made that tearing sound. But cloth didn't bleed, and Sam was pretty sure cloth didn't feel pain.

Sam wanted to yell and shout and swear, but he couldn't. He couldn't stop staring at his brother's face. It was glistening with sweat and his jaw was twitching as Dean gritted his teeth against the pain.

"Dean?" he asked, fear stealing away his anger. Dean didn't answer, just shut his eyes tightly and continued to shiver. Sam couldn't help feeling that he was making it worse by staring: Dean hated people knowing he was in pain, hated when he couldn't hide it. Sam bit his lip and looked away.

A glimmer caught his eye. Turning his head, Sam saw Damien's pocketknife discarded on the ground, almost within reach. Sam quickly reverted his gaze, glancing up at Damien to make sure he too hadn't noticed the knife.

But Damien wasn't paying him any attention. He was staring at Dean, and he had the fucking gall to smile. Not grin or gloat, but smile. Like he'd just solved a puzzle, not shoved a spear, of all things, through Dean's shoulder.

Sam slowly started shuffling backwards, towards the knife. His movements were awkward, a slow crawl across the dirt without full use of his legs or arms, all the while trying to keep his breathing steady and his plan from hitting Damien's radar.

"Told you to stop moving," Damien said, eyeing the spear.

"You crazy son of a bitch," Dean gasped. He was shaking, every shudder setting off a fresh gasp, but Dean couldn't seem to stop. Or maybe his body wasn't his to command anymore: it had been penetrated with a fucking spear, for Christ's sake. The spear was thin, jutting out of him at a perfect, straight angle. Blood was darkening his shirt, slowly spreading as his tremors widened the wound.

"I'm going to kill you." Dean's voice was shaking so badly the words barely resembled a threat.

"I doubt it," Damien said, and he casually kicked Dean's knee. Nothing hard, nothing that would cause damage. Just enough to make Dean flinch and bend on impact.

Dean cried out as the movement jostled the spear.

Sam froze in his effort to retrieve the knife, anger flushing his cheeks. He bit the inside of his lip until it bled, forcing himself to keep quiet. Dean was blinking back tears of pain, looking annoyed that they were there to begin with. Sam stretched out his arms and felt his hand curl around the knife's cold hilt. He gripped it tightly and brought it forward, carving through the ropes with more speed and strength than he knew he possessed.

* * *

Dean forced himself to stand as still as possible and locked eyes with Damien. He was fighting off nausea and red was sparking in front of his vision, but he refused to break eye contact. "Karma's a real bitch; just a head's up." His voice was low and strained. 

Damien picked up the knife and lighter from where he'd dropped them. "Karma's an abstract concept that denotes nothing. Like good, or evil."

_Fucking pretentious asshole. _"_I'm _a real bitch. Just a heads up."

"You should be grateful." Damien flicked on the lighter and starting heating the knife. "Do you know how much tattoo removal usually costs? I got some ex-girlfriends who can tell you."

"Really? I was under the impression they were all possessed or dead. Don't tell me you're into necrophilia, too."

Damien chuckled and continued to heat the knife.

Dean forced himself passed the cloud of pain, and passed the panic that had intruded while his body stood vulnerable. He forced himself passed it all and racked his mind, trying to think of a way out. He glanced at Sam, preparing himself for Sam's worried face, but was startled to find him in the process of cutting through his ropes.

Dean quickly swung his vision forward, not wanting to alert Damien of Sam's escape attempt. He gasped as the movement jostled the spear.

Damien looked up at the sound. Switching the lighter to the hand holding the knife, Damien walked across the room and scooped up a half-empty bottle of vodka. He then pried Dean's fingers away from the spear and pushed the bottle firmly into his hand. Dean gripped the bottle, staring at it.

"Drink," Damien said. "It'll hurt like hell if you don't." He flicked back on the lighter and continued to twist the knife in the flames, smiling a little.

The orange light danced off the bottle's surface and maybe it was the blood loss and beating, but Dean found himself mesmerized by the dancing flames' reflection. He blinked and realized Damien was still talking.

"I'm not a monster." He was using a conversational tone that made Dean want to rip this spear from his shoulder and jab it into Damien's eye. "I didn't let him take away my mortality so that I can kill and torture people. I don't paint my nails black and wear eyeliner for that reason either. I did it because I believe in his cause. What we do helps everyone. It's more important than you can imagine. My life has a meaning now greater than it ever did when I was just one of you. Just a mortal fucking away my life." He stepped closer and Dean cringed at the heat from the flames.

"They don't suffer, the ones we kill," Damien said quietly. "I'd give you that mercy, but he wants you alive. And he'd be furious if he knew Susie had branded you for death so soon, after so little observation. Plus…" Damien moved to Dean's side and tore off the arm of his shirt, revealing the tattoo beneath. "Susie saw you killing me, and that pisses me off."

Sweat rolled down Dean's back. He gripped the bottle and, acting more on instinct than anything, swung it as hard as he could, right at Damien's head. Damien's arm whipped up and blocked the blow. He yanked the bottle from Dean's grip and tossed it aside. "Fine, don't drink it."

"Saving it for later. Got an occasion in mind." Dean managed to keep his voice strong. He was proud of himself.

Damien just smiled and pressed the hot knife against the tattoo's edge.

Dean heard himself grunt and felt his teeth clench as his skin sizzled, the smell assaulting his senses and turning his stomach. Before he was able to pass out, a blur from the corner of his eye – Sam! – came plowing into Damien, knocking him to the ground.

In the absence of the heat from the knife, a cold - sharp and sudden - hit Dean and his shivering increased. But he ignored it. "Sam," he called, watching with growing urgency as Damien flung Sam across the room. Sam was only deterred for a second, long enough to clear the stars from his eyes, before running back towards Damien like a freakin' freight train. They collided and fell to the ground in a mess of fists.

"Sam!" Dean called louder. "Get him out of this room!"

Damien pushed Sam off him and grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt, and together they propelled themselves into a wall, breaking through the old wood and tumbling into the room beyond. Dean cringed at the sound of Sam's body slamming to the floor beyond. That wasn't what he meant!

"Dammit," he muttered. Sam couldn't hold out against Damien. Jesus, they were beyond his sight but he could still hear flesh smacking flesh. Hand shaking with what he reasoned was pain alone, Dean gripped the spear, but he gasped as the pressure sent sharp rivulets through him. "Shit!" He took a deep breath and clenched his teeth.

He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the spear. He tightened his grip and shut his eyes. _One, two, THREE. _He yanked the spear clear through his shoulder. This time there was no music to drown out his scream.

* * *

Sam's head snapped towards the sound of his brother's scream. Bad move. Damien slammed his fist into Sam's face. The next thing he knew, Sam was sprawled on the floor, blinking back a haze of fog and staring up at Damien's angry face. He seemed farther away than he should have and his lips were moving, but a buzzing had replaced Sam's hearing. He blinked slowly, watching Damien's hair hang down like black buzzards diving for their prey. He blinked and saw Damien's fist in the air, blinked again and saw it closer, blinked again and it had consumed his vision. 

A sound like a gunshot penetrated the buzzing and Sam opened his eyes to find blood dripping onto his shirt. But it wasn't his. The blood was running from a widening hole in Damien's shirt.

Sam scrambled back, watching as Damien's fingers reached for his chest, stopping just short of the wound as he stared at it in shock. Damien looked over his shoulder and Sam followed his gaze. Dean stood with the gun still held upright in his hands.

"Dean," Sam gasped, noting the blood that ran from Dean's shoulder, creating a soaking red circle that continued to widen.

"Move," Dean said, still holding the gun.

Sam frowned: his head was ringing and he was shocked by the turn of events.

Dean nodded at Damien's tilting body.

"Whoa." Sam jumped up and stumbled backwards, grabbing the wall to steady himself. Damien looked up at him before his eyes rolled into his head and he slumped forward, hitting the ground with a small thump. For a second, they could hear the distant chatter of students as they quietly stared at Damien's body. "Is he…"

Before Sam finished the sentence, Damien's let put a muffled groan and he slowly pushed himself onto his back. His chest was glistening with blood and sweat rolled down his dirty face. He was staring up at Dean; he still looked shocked.

Dean took a few steps closer. "Those symbols make you a god, but away from them you bleed pretty just like the rest of us."

"P-please," Damien gasped.

Dean lifted the gun and aimed at Damien's head. "Karma's a bitch." He pulled the trigger.

Sam flinched as the shot rang out and blood splattered the ground. Then he watched, mesmerized, as Damien's body began to age rapidly, like a badly done special effect, until it withered into dust and bone. Quiet again descended as they stared at Damien's remains. Then Dean's legs gave out.

"Dean!" Sam rushed to his brother's side and caught him before he fell to the ground. "Hey, hey," Sam soothed, shifting Dean's weight so that he could lean him carefully against the wall. "A little too much excitement, huh?" He took a closer look at the wound in Dean's shoulder and cringed. The flesh was torn and blood now soaked almost half Dean's shirt – who knew what damage Dean had done to himself, tearing the spear out like that.

"I'm good for a few more rounds," Dean said as Sam removed his own outer shirt and pressed it tightly against the wound to staunch the bleeding. Dean flinched and clenched his jaw, but didn't say anything.

"With a Chihuahua maybe," Sam muttered, moving to tie the shirt like a makeshift bandage. He had to hold back a gasp, though, when he saw the burn that now replaced that spearhead tattoo. A spot of flesh like angry pink froth. Sam ran a hand over his face, breathing out slowly as anger and nausea battled in his stomach. He almost felt like he was betraying Dean, coming out of this with only a few bruises.

"Give me some credit," Dean said, Sam guessed to fill the quiet that had again settled as Sam tore some more cloth and wrapped it around the burn. "Put me in a ring with Paris, her Chihuahua and that anorexic friend and watch me go."

Sam smiled briefly, growing more worried with every shudder that racked Dean's body.

"NO!" A scream tore into the room, high-pitched and frantic. Sam whipped around with a start. Susie stood in the doorway, staring in horror at Damien's remains.

"Oh, great," Dean muttered, forcing himself higher up the wall.

"No!" she yelled again, stumbling into the room and falling to her knees beside Damien. "Oh god…" she choked, cautiously placing a hand on what remained of Damien's shoulder. "Damien…oh god…please come back…I'm sorry, baby…I'm so sorry…"

"Cue the violins," Dean said, having managed to get himself standing, pushing away Sam's help.

Susie's red-rimmed eyes snapped towards his. She glanced down at the gun still in his hands. "You!" She stood up and curled her hands into fists. "You killed him! You fucking bastard! He didn't deserve to die this way!"

Sam stood warily between them.

"Right, he was an upstanding citizen," Dean snapped. "A bit bonkers and sadistic, but just upstanding."

Susie screamed and catapulted herself at Dean.

"Whoa!" Sam jumped in her way and caught her in his arms as she flailed and fought, angry tears running down her face.

"I'm going to kill you!" she kept screaming at Dean.

"Let her at me, Sam," Dean said, despite wavering on his feet. "She's not Paris Hilton or a damn Chihuahua, but I'll take what I can get."

"Not helping, Dean," Sam grunted as he pushed Susie away.

Susie scrunched up her face and screamed again. A blue energy rose from her body and formed into a translucent copy of herself. Her astral projection sprang forward and Sam felt its energy collide into him and he fell backwards.

Dean brought up his gun and aimed as the energy surged forward.

"No!" Sam shouted, jumping up and pushing Dean's arm aside. The shot rang out, a small clump of plaster raining from the ceiling where the bullet struck.

The sound seemed to shock Susie from her distress and her astral projected self snapped back into her. She opened her eyes and stopped screaming, looking up at the hole in the ceiling. She pressed her fists to her eyes as more tears appeared.

Sam looked at Dean in shock. "She's human, Dean. She's still being controlled by whoever Damien was talking about." Dean looked at him but didn't say anything, just carefully leaned against the wall. Sam softened. "Give me the gun, Dean," he said, gently prying open Dean's fingers. Or trying to. They were curled around it so tightly that his fingers had turned white. "Dean, let go."

Dean sluggishly looked down at his hand, almost like he hadn't been aware he was clutching it. His fingers loosened. Not much, but enough. Sam took the gun from him and tucked it into his waistband, pulling his shirt over it.

"You son of a bitch," Susie choked, looking back at Dean. "Damien wasn't a bad guy!" She strode into the room with the symbols, clambering through the hole that Sam and Damien had made during their fight.

Sam and Dean cautiously watched as Susie grabbed a key from her pocket and dropped to her knees, opening a door hidden in the floor. Her head disappeared into it for a second and when she reappeared she was holding some boxes. She strode back to Sam and Dean and dumped the boxes at their feet, grabbing a fistful of paper from them and waving it in their faces. "He agreed to give up mortality to continue the project!" She chucked the papers at them and they each caught a few pages. The pages consisted of rows and rows of neat notes under the headings:

Hypothesis, subject, test, behavioral reactions, psychological reactions, conclusion.

"It's a social experiment, you fools!" Susie continued. "He and Damien do tests, and recruit others like me to help. We choose people and we change their lives somehow, give them something traumatic to deal with: stage some suicides and see how it effects the classmates, see if the rumor mill starts churning or if the quest for grades are affected; we kill family members and watch how long it takes to recover, if personalities change; we gave Sam that fucking dream and tested you with those fucking numbers to watch how he'd react, see how long before he'd tell you and then see how _you'd_ react." Susie grabbed her hair in distress and walked back over to Damien, looking down at his remains in disbelief.

Sam had grown cold and he could feel Dean tense beside him.

"Fucking experiments?" Dean whispered. "We're fucking experiments? You killed those people to test out a…a _thesis_? We're lab rats to you?"

"Don't you get it!" Susie screamed, eyes wide and voice cracking. "No one has ever been able to conduct research into the human psyche like we can! Fucking ethics gets in the way, fucking researchers die before any real break through! But imagine if you could live forever, imagine if you could conduct a centuries' long experiment to solve the mystery of whether our characters and values are innate, or whether they can change at the drop of a suicide or at the death of a family member." She strode up to them and grabbed the boxes back, violently chucking them across the room. Thousands of sheets came fluttering out, almost blanketing the room white. "Damien was helping your sorry asses!"

Sam blinked hard, trying to absorb this information.

"We were fucking experiments?" Dean repeated, yelling this time. Ignoring his shoulder, he strode forward, pushing away Sam's attempts to steady him, and grabbed Susie by her arm. "Everything that's happened, all those deaths over the years, everything, it was all part of this Dr Evil nonsense?"

"Not nonsense," Susie growled. "So a few people die in the end. It's worth it! They'd be proud to know they're helping us understand ourselves better! You should be proud that he chose you to be a part of this too!"

Sam stepped up beside Dean, watching the exchange and ready to jump in if need be. Dean's eyes were glazed over, and Sam couldn't tell whether from pain or anger. He was too shocked himself to form a reaction other than bewilderment. But the more he thought about it, a chill began to creep up his spine. Damien had been a researcher who sold his soul for a chance to study human behavior forever. To kill people and analyze the reactions. He was a sociopath turned academic.

"You turn a human into a fly yet?" Dean finally said, letting go of Susie in disgust.

"I hate you," she hissed, backing up and kneeling beside Damien again.

"Gee, really? You want to follow up that riveting response by slamming a door and listening to some loud Linkin Park?"

"Come on, Dean," Sam said, gently taking a hold of Dean's good arm and pulling him towards the exit. Dean didn't refuse the help.

"Wait," Dean said. He nodded at a bottle of alcohol lying in the other room. "Grab that for me, would ya."

Sam frowned but quickly retrieved it, not wanting to argue with Dean when he looked this pale.

Once outside, Dean stumbled. Sam instantly tightened his hold and lifted some of Dean's weight off his own feet. "I'm getting you to the hospital and you better not complain -"

"No," Dean said, finally pushing Sam away.

Sam frowned. "You don't listen to anything I say, do you?"

"It's not that bad."

"Not that bad? Dean, you could give Carrie a run for her money!"

"Sam," Dean growled, clutching his arm protectively and trying to hide a grimace. "We need to find this other player before he gets wind of what we did to his bum chum in there."

"Okay, yeah, I get that, but the hunt can wait till _after _you stop bleeding to death. I mean, you know, after we _stop _you bleeding to death. Not after you finish bleeding…dammit, you know what I mean!"

Dean rolled his eyes.

How the hell did Dean manage to make it look like Sam was being overprotective while with a hole in his goddamn shoulder?

"You patch it up," Dean said, glancing at Sam.

"What?" Sam said, the dizziness in his head increasing.

"Sam, we do this ER shit all the time. I'll wait in that building over there." He pointed to one of the abandoned lots. "Go grab the First Aid kit. And my jacket. And don't get any blood on my car. It'll stain the leather."

Sam looked down at himself and realized with a start that he was covered with blood - both Dean's and Damien's. He looked back up at Dean and raised his eyebrows, trying not to feel annoyed. "Don't stain the leather? We're getting you a shrink when this is over."

"And we're getting you a haircut."

Sam smirked, but still hesitated. He didn't want to leave Dean alone, even if to grab the First Aid kit. "You know," he said, "in the state you're in, I could just carry you over my shoulder to the hospital and you couldn't do anything about it."

Dean glared at him. "Yeah? Want to know what I'd do about it after my shoulder gets better?"

Sam sighed. "I'm going, I'm going." He turned and hurried for the car, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the blood, but hesitated again and looked back over at Dean. He watched as Dean slowly made his way to the building, stumbling a few times. Sam's arms and legs twitched, wanting to help him.

"Damn your stubborn ass."

* * *

Dean grabbed hold of the rotting door frame and pulled himself in, panting with exertion. He used the last of his strength to push the door shut and then slid down the wall, not able to move any further into the room. He grimaced and looked down at his shoulder. The cloth Sam had wrapped around it was starting to darken. He just sighed and leaned his head against the wall. He felt dizzy and nauseous and hot and cold all at the same time. 

This hunt sucked.

The building's windows were boarded up so that only a few thin lines of light peeked through, and they barely penetrated the dust and mold that had built up over the years. It was strangely comforting. To sit here in the dark, listening to his own breath and knowing no one else could hear how ragged it sounded. Dean rolled his eyes. He didn't even want to know what the shrinks would say about that.

Dean's head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, but his body didn't respond nearly as fast. It just sat there. Sam squeezed through the door and then shoved the thing closed again, frowning as it groaned and creaked in protest, a few splinters snaking up the frame.

"Trust you to choose the most dangerous building," Sam said, kneeling next to Dean and shooting him concerned glances as he put down the First Aid kit and jacket.

"Trust you to choose the most dangerous college," Dean said, face flushing under Sam's scrutiny.

"Danger seems to follow us around, if you hadn't noticed." Sam slowly peeled off the cloth covering the wound in Dean's shoulder. Dean dug his fingers into his palms, refusing to make a sound. "Dean…this looks bad."

"We're Winchesters: we heal extraordinarily fast… if you haven't noticed." He tried to keep his voice steady for Sam's sake. "Just get out the fucking lighter and cauterize the damn thing."

Sam looked uncertain. He sighed and took out some gauze, alcohol swabs and a lighter. He tore Dean's shirt around the wound and cleared away the blood as best he could. "I can't see anything," he muttered, standing up and yanking one of the planks from the window.

The morning light hit Dean's face and he cringed at the intrusion, black dots blurring his vision.

"Here," Sam said, passing Dean the bottle of vodka he'd made Sam retrieve and a few of the pages he still had from those boxes.

Dean unscrewed the lid and took a large swallow of the alcohol, before putting it aside and picking up the papers. "The booze I get, what am I 'spose to do with these?"

"A distraction," Sam said, flicking on the lighter.

"Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but reading about my role as a lab rat in some psycho's experiment isn't really very distrac- OW!" He scrunched the papers in his hand, shutting his eyes as his vision blurred. This was the second time in as many hours that he'd been forced to smell his own skin sizzling. "Right," he finally said, breathing hard and trying to keep from screaming or, you know, throwing up. "_That_ was the distraction."

"Sorry," Sam said, quickly removing the lighter to start on the hole in the back of Dean's shoulder. "Sorry," he said again as Dean flinched and involuntarily pulled away.

"If you don't stop saying sorry, _I'm _going to have to start apologizing."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to hit you over the head with this bottle!"

"Right, sor-" Sam caught himself. "Right."

The glare slid from Dean's face and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision.

"Okay, all done," Sam said, sounding relieved.

Dean didn't dare look at his shoulder, couldn't stomach the damage. He felt it. He smelled it. Eyelids growing heavy, black creeping across his vision, Dean forced his head to turn and look at Sam instead. "Where's my lollipop?"

Sam smirked. "We're out of lollipops, but here," he grabbed a pack of aspirin from the kit, "take a few of these."

Dean reached out with his good arm and took the packet, popping out five and tossing them into his mouth, grabbing the open bottle of vodka.

"Not with - !"

Dean swallowed the pills and put the bottle aside.

"That," Sam finished with a sigh. He pushed away the First Aid kit and leaned against the wall beside Dean. "You're going to give me premature gray hair, I swear."

Dean smirked slightly and closed his eyes, giving in to his exhaustion for a second. "Hey, at least then I can call you an old fuddy duddy. Suits you."

"Thanks." Sam's laugh sounded strained.

Dean forced his eyes open and leaned forward, grabbing the papers and smoothing them out on the floor in front of him, the movement forcing back his exhaustion. He glanced at Sam, who had a nasty bruise forming on the side of his face and a few smaller yellow ones dotted here and there. "Have to tell ya, buddy, not really seeing the appeal of this whole college thing."

"My experience was slightly different." Sam glanced at the papers and froze. He reached out and pointed to a number sequence at the top of the page. "967540-32810-0000," he read out loud, the blood draining from his face. "Dean," he said, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Rearrange those numbers."

Dean frowned. "I'm suffering blood loss here and you want me to do math? This is to get me back for that time when you were three and I told you one plus one equaled five, right?"

Sam ignored him and picked up the pages, looking torn between excitement and shock. "Rearranged they turn into 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 0 0 0 0 0."

"The countdown?"

Sam shook his head. "Not a countdown. Damien said that the dream about killing you was a red herring. Meant to trick us from the real trail. So… so maybe those numbers weren't actually counting down anything. Maybe they meant something different, completely different, and Susie just led us to believe it was a countdown. Maybe we've been chasing red herrings this whole time…"

Dean blinked a few times, wondering if his eyelids usually felt this heavy. "Huh?"

Sam rummaged through his bag. "We're a part of their twisted little social experiment, right? They've been watching us for a while, taking photographs of us. They knew we were brothers and, after Susie was drawn to me that day on the lawn, they knew we dealt in the supernatural. That means that the dream and the numbers and pretending to be a ghost…all of that was geared towards watching how we'd react. They were messing with our minds, so those numbers might mean anything and they were just waiting to see how long it would take us to work it out." Sam paused from his search and frowned. "You know, _before_ Susie and Damien took it upon themselves to make you leave."

He finally pulled a class schedule from the bag. "It's…it's the extended course code for Contemporary Cultural Studies."

"The class we were sitting in?"

Sam nodded.

Dean used the wall to pull himself up, keeping his injured arm close and steady.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked in alarm, hurrying to stand beside Dean.

"This other dude, whoever the fuck he is, has to be from that class too. I'm going to find him."

Sam looked incredulous. "After you've just had a spear shoved through your shoulder and a tattoo burnt off? You're going go find this other guy? No plan, just go and hope he doesn't kill you."

"Yep. You going to pass me my jacket or stay here all day asking stupid questions?"

Sam stared at Dean for a second before shaking his head and scooping up Dean's jacket. For a second, Dean thought Sam was going to throw it at him, but instead he walked behind Dean and held it open for him.

"I can put on my own jacket. Can tie my own shoes and brush my teeth, too."

"Humor me."

Dean sighed and carefully slid his arms into it, biting his lip to avoid crying out with the movement. He then pulled up the zipper to hide the blood.

Sam was quickly shoving the kit and papers into his bag.

"Dude, you want to attract the sharks? Hide that mess," Dean nodded at Sam's shirt. Sam looked down at himself and quickly pulled his shirt off, turning it inside out to hide the blood stains.

"Better?"

"You're a bona fide Houdini."

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling a little.

Dean groaned when he saw the smile. If he had to deal with Sam's concern and then his relief whenever Dean made a joke, he was going to kill himself. Or Sam. He hadn't decided which.

* * *

The sun was making Dean's head swim and dots were dancing in front of his vision. Sunshine was overrated. 

"This isn't one of your smarter ideas," Sam said. "In fact, barging into the faculty office and demanding the names and histories of everyone in that class isn't an idea at all."

Dean shot him an annoyed look before returning his gaze to the grass: he didn't completely trust his legs to guide him on their own. "I'm not twiddling my thumbs waiting for this man of mystery to literally sweep me off my feet. We've been jumping through their fucking hoops this whole time. Time to get proactive."

"We could rally," Sam muttered.

"You're funny, really, just hilarious."

"Dean, whoever we're dealing with here is calculating. He's not just an angry spirit. He knows what he's doing and he knows we're trying to stop him. He has the upper hand."

"So, this is what happens when the Geeks try to take over the world."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Dean looked at Sam and cringed. "Sorry. My mind went to an image of Doctor Evil stroking his cat and then to Revenge of the Geeks, and they kinda got merged. You know, like, this is evil, college style."

Sam continued to stare at him with raised eyebrows. He slowed down and reached for Dean's arm, stopping him. "Dean, are you sure you're okay?"

No, he wasn't. His head felt fuzzy and light and he was having trouble concentrating. "I'm fine. Keep going. What were you saying? Something about calculus and rashes."

"Calculating," Sam stressed, looking more concerned. "I said they're calculating. Rashes, what?"

Sam's voice started to slur and he began tilting. Funny, Dean thought, the world tilted with him.

The next thing he knew, Dean was in Sam's arms. Embarrased, he pushed Sam away. "Personal space, dude."

"Dean, you are not alright. Stop being a dick. Let me take you to the hospital."

"A what?"

"Dean!"

"Sam," Dean growled in response, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. "I've just about had it with this overprotective shit. I'm fine and I'll be finer once we're done with this school."

"Yeah? Well, I've about had it with your Rambo complex. When you collapse and die, don't say I didn't warn you."

Dean scowled. "If I collapse and die, I'm haunting your ass."

Sam visibly sighed, but to his credit he only swept his gaze over Dean's bandages and bruises once before pretending to buy Dean's assurances.

Dean turned and rounded the street that would lead them to the faculty building. He stopped short at the sight that met him. "What the fuck happened?"

Sam stepped up beside him and smirked. "Lunch hour."

The quad was filled with students. _Teeming _with them. A huge crowd carrying books and bags and food, expertly maneuvering around each other to avoid the collisions Dean was sure were inevitable, but that just didn't seem to happen. He warily eyed the congestion of bodies in the centre of this loud clump. "And we can't be off fighting swamp monsters, why?" Dean sighed and strode resolutely into the mob, Sam following closer that Dean would've liked.

"…I bought the green one…"

"…what do you feel like?..."

"…that class is breaking my balls…"

"…should I ask her..."

"…he's such a bastard…"

"…it's a public area, we can post whatever we want…"

"…end the war on Iraq! Sign the petition!..."

"…it was so much fun…"

"…maybe we should streak…"

By the time Dean and Sam got to the faculty office, Dean's arm was throbbing something shocking from the amount of times he'd been bumped into, he'd broken out in a sweat from the exertion of staying upright on his own two feet, and he was just plain pissed off.

He slammed his good arm down on the counter separating him from the office hand, then slumped forward to lean his weight on it.

The older woman jumped and stared up at him in surprise. She stood up and backed away a few steps. "Can I help you boys?" She was eyeing them with suspicion, discreetly trying to step behind her chair.

"Uh, yeah, actually," Sam said, shooting a glance at Dean before continuing. "We were wondering if-"

"We need to see the names and files of everyone in Contemporary Cultural Studies," Dean interrupted. "Now would be good."

An annoyed look started to overpower the woman's surprise. She pursed her lips and glared at Dean from beyond her glasses. "I can't just _give _you that information. You'll need to talk to the faculty advisor and bring your grievances to him."

Dean sighed loudly. "Look, lady-"

"That's fine," Sam cut in. "Where can we find him?"

She gave Dean another angry look before turning to address Sam. "He's in his office. I'll see if he has time to see you…gentlemen." She disappeared into the advisor's office.

"Dean-"

"I know," Dean snapped, rubbing his forehead and shutting his eyes as another wave of dizziness hit him. "It wouldn't kill me to be polite once in a while, yadda, yadda, yadda."

"I was going to ask if you wanted some more aspirin."

Dean opened his eyes and peered up at Sam. "Oh."

The door to the faculty advisor's office opened and the woman reappeared. She walked back behind the counter and started to pile a few folders into a large storage box, coldly refusing to look Dean in the eye again. Boy, could he piss people off or what. "He'll see you in a few minutes. Take a seat, please," she finally said, lifting the box.

"I'm good right here," Dean said, forcing a quick smile.

The woman huffed but Sam hurried around the counter, quickly lifting the box from her arms before she had a chance to start lecturing Dean. "Let me help with those," he said, glancing at Dean and shaking his head with a small smile.

Dean rolled his eyes. Always with the politeness. It was going to be the death of that boy. Or at least do his back in one day.

"Thank you, dear," the woman said, smiling in surprise. "At least there are a few young people left who know how to treat others with respect."

"Where do you want these?"

"Just in that storage room, over there."

Sam nodded and lifted the box easily, disappearing into the room. Dean turned away and leaned his back against the counter, catching his reflection in a nearby window. The reflection's odd angle made his face look transparent, his eyes lost somewhere beyond the glass so that only the black of his bruises followed when he turned his head. Jesus, he looked like death.

He looked away, unsettled by the distorted image. A book on a nearby stand caught his attention. Dean frowned and walked over to it, picking it up off its stand. On the front was a picture of a large church bell with its echoes represented in little black semi-circles. A crowd of people stood beneath the bell. The image felt familiar…

…This is too important for you two to screw up _The voice was in his head! A loud boom that reverberated through his body and for a second Dean thought he was standing beneath a large church bell as it chimed, the echoes hitting harder than the initial tolls… _

Dean slowly moved back across the room and lowered himself into one of the plastic chairs, hands still clutching the book. "The Echo Effect." He traced his finger over the author's name. Martin Linberg. Wasn't that…

Dean looked up when the Faculty Advisor's door opened and Professor Linberg emerged with a hearty grin.

Dean frowned. "You teach that Cultural Studies lecture."

"That's right," he smiled.

"You teach, write, and advise?" Dean asked. "Geez, you must be downing those multis."

The Professor chuckled, opening his door and stepping back. "Oh my," he said when Dean stood up. "What happened to you, young man? Are you okay?"

"Followed a snake into his lair," Dean muttered, glancing at the storage room door. He could still hear Sam fiddling around.

The professor frowned, looking baffled. "Uh, okay. Come in, come in. Tell me what's on your mind. What's this about class lists?"

Dean followed him in, watching the floor to make sure his feet were cooperating. He still didn't trust his body after almost collapsing out on the lawn. "Yeah, see, um…my brother's better at the whole explaining thing."

"Yep," Linberg said, sitting at his desk.

"He's off earning a seat in heaven, he'll be here soon." Dean pulled out a chair opposite Linberg and sat down. Satisfied that he couldn't stumble now that he was sitting, Dean looked up.

A wall of spears met his gaze.

Dean froze, staring at them. They looked like a display. Some were old, some new. Each had a little title above it. Dean let his gaze travel down to the book in his hands, then back up at the Professor. The guy was watching Dean with a glint in his eyes that Dean hadn't noticed earlier. "Oh."

"Oh?" The Professor smiled. "Oh, what, young man?"

"Um…" Dean looked around, noticing how the office gleamed with almost unnatural cleanliness. Unnatural being the key word. "Othello. Yeah…I have to go read that. For a class. Right now."

Linberg frowned. "Well, if you must."

"Yeah…" Dean stood up and backed towards the door. "I was just going to rent it, but…reading is important."

The door slammed shut before Dean reached it. "Ah crap," he sighed. He turned to face the professor, cursing Sam for taking his gun from him. "So, you're the mastermind, huh? Kinda clichéd, don't you think. One step above 'the butler did it.'"

The professor smiled and stood up, watching Dean closely. "_You_ never suspected me."

Dean saluted him. "Good point. I mean, you'd know, wouldn't you? You and your little minions have been playing stalker since we arrived in this town. What's up with that?"

The professor clasped his hands behind his back and casually walked around his desk, approaching Dean.

Dean edged to the side, looking for a make-do weapon. Before he'd found one, he was flung against the wall by an invisible force, the impact sending a spark of pain through his shoulder. "Son of a bitch!"

The professor sat on the edge of the desk, frowning in disproval. "Now, really, must we use such language? We're civilized men."

Dean glared at him for a second, growing more angry with every failed attempt to move from this frickin' wall. "Fuck you."

"Fine. Use deplorable language. Someone obviously so uneducated has no other verbal weapon."

"Go to hell, bitch."

Dean stumbled forward as the energy binding him to the wall suddenly disappeared. Not wasting a second, he grabbed an envelope opener from the desk and plunged into the professor's chest.

"Honestly, Dean," the professor said, looking down at the knife protruding from his chest. "I'm the 'mastermind' as you called it; I'm a bit more powerful than my assistants."

He pulled out the knife and Dean flinched, waiting for the thing to end up in _his _chest. Instead, the professor placed it back on the desk and waved his hand lazily. Dean flew through the air and collided into one of the bookshelves. He slid to the floor, shielding his head from the barrage of books that fell with him. When the thumps settled, Dean opened his eyes and forced himself up, ignoring his protesting body. "There something you want from me, or you just need a new punching bag?"

Again, Dean was flung against a wall by that invisible force. "Jesus, almighty," he growled. "You bad guys never play fair, you know that? Just tell me one thing, alright, why a fucking spearhead tattoo? Why that symbol? A dagger not classy enough for you?"

The professor smiled and glanced over at his spearhead display. "A spear is a symbol of power and destiny. The Ancient Greek Mythology associated the spear with Zeus' lightening bolts. In the gospel of John, the Spear of Destiny pierced Jesus' side during the crucifixion. The spear represents human will, and even Jesus himself couldn't fight that."

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's a pointy stick."

The professor stood and scooped up his book, The Echo Effect, from the floor. He sat back on the edge of the desk, crossing his leg over one knee and staring at the book's cover. "I'm not the villain in the tale."

"Yeah, that seems to be all I'm hearing lately," Dean muttered.

"Maybe because it's the truth." He looked up at Dean and set the book aside. "The human condition is fascinating. I dedicated my life, and my afterlife, to studying you people. You understand nothing about yourselves; it's almost pathetic. I'm helping you. I'm uncovering, subject by subject, whether or not you're shaped by circumstance or if you're born into a personality that never sheds. Whether values change after trauma and what people are willing to give up for that which they consider most important. My work will eventually help the human race understand itself better."

"Gee, that's real Mother Theresa of you," Dean spat. "Oh wait, you murder people, you ass! That there's gonna disqualify you from the Noble prize."

The professor leaned back and crossed his arms. "Death is a part of life. It's a part of my research. There is no reason to become emotional about it. Everyone dies eventually."

"Everyone but you, right?"

The professor looked away for second. "One day I'd liked to have retired. Damien was going to take my place and continue the project."

"Oh, the one I put a bullet through? Twice, actually." Dean smiled coldly. "I was second time lucky."

Anger flashed through the professor's eyes. "Yes, him. He was a good man. I handpicked him to be my apprentice almost a century ago. His death was unfortunate." The professor stood and stepped closer to Dean. "Now I have a 'beef' with you, as people put it."

Dean smiled slowly. "Am I seeing an emotional reaction? Couldn't avoid becoming like the people you studied, huh?"

They stared at each other for a second, Dean smiling and the professor glaring. Suddenly, he reached for the lapels of Dean's shirt and flung him onto the desk. Dean's back arched on impact. The professor leaned close, using one arm to hold Dean down; the other coming down on Dean's shoulder wound. Dean cried out, trying to move away.

"I want you to pay close attention," the professor snarled, pressing harder.

Dean clenched his jaw against the pain sparking from his shoulder.

"This was never about you," the professor said. "We chose you and your brother as subjects simply because Susie foresaw your death and we didn't want to waste an opportunity to study how that knowledge would affect a family." He leaned closer and Dean could feel the professor's cold breath on his face. "That all changed when you killed _my _apprentice. _Mine! _He had more talent and worth than you'll ever know! So I want you to listen carefully. Everything, and I mean everything, that happens now is on your shoulders."

He let go and Dean slumped down against the desk until he was sitting on the floor, hand wrapped around his arm to protect his throbbing shoulder. A buzzing had entered his head and was beginning to drown out any other noise.

"Dean."

Dean reluctantly looked up. The professor puts his fingers to his lips. "Listen."

Dean strained his ears, trying to hear past the buzzing. In the distant, an ambulance's siren wailed. Dean's heartbeat increased. A scream. Another scream. All from outside. His gaze locked with the professor's. "No," he whispered, dread coiling through him and numbing him to any pain other than that growing in his chest.

The office door opened on its own and the professor stood back, giving Dean room to leave. "On your shoulders," he repeated.

Dean pulled himself up with shaking hands and stumbled out of the office. The room beyond was empty. So was the hall. "Sam!" he called. Dean's breath froze in his lungs when no one answered other than the office hand.

Dean was shaking so badly he could barely move, or maybe it was the dread. But he found he couldn't breathe, or think or do anything other than watch the exit sign loom closer. That's when he realized he was moving, that his legs were propelling him towards the door even though he felt nothing other than this pain clawing at his chest. He watched as his hand reached out and opened the door. He watched as the large crowd outside drew closer. They all faced away from Dean, staring at the pavement.

Numbly, Dean moved forward.


	8. Chapter 8

_**IMPORTANT: **You must start reading from **Chapter 5**!_

I've rewritten the whole story and it completely changes from chapter five onwards - I'm really sorry for doing this to you guys but I needed to tighten the plot. I adore this new version, though lol. I think it's much stronger. The whole story has been tightened, with events rearranged and dialogue spruced up, but if you can't be bothered reading it again from chap one (and, really, who could blame you lol) then start from chapter five. All that happened before is still intact, if altered here and there.

Thank you so much for all your patience and kind reviews!

Remember, start from **Chapter 5!**

**Chapter 8**:

Once, when they were younger, Dean pushed Sam off the top of an old slide set. He hadn't meant to. They'd been mucking around, using the slide as a makeshift watchtower, and they'd started arguing. He could never remember about what. He'd shoved Sam and the kid tripped over his own feet. Dean had reached out and tried to catch him, but Sam fell too quickly. He toppled over the low bars and landed on the ground, flat on his stomach. Dean never forgot the sound Sam's body made when it hit the dirt floor. It was a curt, hollow thump, followed immediately with a sound like air releasing from a valve.

Dean had sprung down the ladder, falling to his hands and knees as he jumped the last few steps. He ran to Sam's side, horrified by what he'd done. Sam was lying there, gaping like a fish and making strange wheezing noises as he tried to suck in air that refused to enter. Dean tried to help, but Sam pushed him away and ran inside, gasping and crying.

He'd only been winded by the fall, and seemed to forget about it after a few hours, but Dean didn't forget. The scare had ingrained in him a lesson, and he refused to ever be the one to hurt Sam again. The lesson stayed, the memory faded.

Until now.

Now that thump was all Dean could hear as he pushed through the crowd, frantically scanning the people around him. An invisible hand tightened around his heart with every person that wasn't Sam. Too short, too pudgy, too buff, too dark, wrong sex, wrong hair, wrong clothes.

Dean stopped and blinked back tears, trying to breathe. He was too close to the front of the crowd, too close to the body that these sick strangers were staring at and murmuring about and jostling him to get closer to.

"Hey, there you are."

Dean heard the voice, he recognized it, he just had trouble reacting. He looked up and saw Sam weaving through the crowd. Right height, right build, right face. His bruises were even in the right place. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but instead found himself grabbing Sam in a tight hug. It was short and he was only able to use one arm, the other now hanging useless, and he quickly stepped back, but it still surprised Sam.

"Uh?" Sam frowned slightly.

"You're lucky I don't beat your ass!"

Sam raised his eyebrows and a few people turned to look at him, but Dean didn't care. "What the hell are you doing out here, huh?"

Sam pointed vaguely at the surrounding crowd. "I heard screams."

Dean wanted so badly to yell at him right then for not realizing he was a big, tall glaring target to any enemy that Dean made and that he had to be more careful, he had to. But he was so damn relieved that he was afraid tears would replace any attempts to play the pissed off big brother. "Next time wait for me," he said. "I'm sure as hell not letting you get all the evil action."

Dean couldn't tell if Sam realized what he'd thought happened. Sam seemed distracted. He kept glancing at the front of the crowd, then back at Dean.

"Dean, there's something-"

Dean pushed passed him, not waiting for him to finish the sentence. Carefully keeping his injured arm close, he strode through the crowd, against the tide as they started moving aside to let the paramedics through.

Dean stopped short. Blood stained the pavement, slowly spreading out, and the guy's neck sat a funny angle. His eyes stared vacantly. It was Joey.

The professor's voice reentered Dean's head:

"_On your shoulders."  
_

* * *

Sam stood a few feet behind Dean, looking down at the scuffed pavement. This wasn't fair. He stepped next to Dean, watching him from the corner of his eye. Dean was just staring at Joey's body, expressionless. 

"We'll find whoever's doing this," Sam said quietly.

Dean slowly looked up at him, something unreadable passing through his eyes. "I already did."

Sam frowned, but before he could ask what that meant, he noticed Dean's gaze shift to something behind him. Sam turned to find Chris staring at Joey's body, eyes red and expression slack with shock. As if noticing their attention, he looked up and slowly walked over.

"Hey," he said numbly, turning again to look at Joey.

"Hey," Sam said softly, not really knowing what else to say. Dean remained quiet.

"He just…jumped," Chris said, still in shock, talking in monotone. "I was walking passed the dorms, he called out from the window, I said 'You've slept through the day, you douche' and he laughed and he flipped me off and then he climbed out the window and…fell. Jesus." He looked at Dean then. "He just asked Brenda out, you know. She said yes. I…I don't get it. Jesus." He ran his hands through his hair and started shaking his head.

"I'm sorry."

Sam glanced at Dean in surprise. He sounded guilty. Dean noticed Sam staring and coughed, shifting his weight. He glanced at Chris one more time before abruptly turning and walking away.

"I'm really sorry for your loss, Chris," Sam said quickly, watching Dean's retreating back. "Joey was a good guy."

Chris just nodded numbly and lowered himself to the ground, pulling his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, staring at Joey's body. Sam hesitated, wanting to say something more. He felt bad about just leaving him, but his concern for Dean was stronger. He hurried after his brother and found him pacing in front of the faculty building.

"This is my fault."

"What? Dean, no it's not."

Dean ignored him. "Professor Linberg, he's the big bad. He knows I killed Damien and he's pissed off so he killed Joey to…to piss _me _off."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, startled by the revelation.

"Yes, I'm sure!" Dean snapped. "A wall of spears, letter opener resistant, loves hearing himself talk. He's the guy."

"A wall of spears…" Sam mumbled, growing cold. "Blood, symbols, a body falling from the window…" He glanced back as paramedics loaded Joey's body into the ambulance. "Wall of spears…" There were only two images left in his vision – the fire and…and himself shouting Dean's name.

"Almost time to kick Death in the balls, huh?"

Sam looked up; he hadn't realized Dean was listening. Dean had a crooked smile on his face.

"Make sure to steal his scythe, too," Sam said with a small smile. "It'll make a nice addition to our weapon collection. For the future. You know, down the line, way down."

Dean should've rolled his eyes or called Sam a pansy. But he just glanced away and drew his injured arm closer. "I'm glad it wasn't you," he mumbled. Sam could barely hear him over the wind that had picked up and begun tossing their hair and making everyone's clothes flap in a cacophony of rustling fabric. "But it's going to be if I don't end this. I'm killing that son of a bitch."

The wind increased, drowning the end of his threat and bringing to them a wave of loose leaf posters that fluttered passed their legs, a few wrapping themselves around their arms. Dean pulled a bright yellow one from where it clung to his forearm. He turned against the wind to read the big black print. "_Tonight. Party to End All Parties._ Well, that's ominous."

"That's more ominous," Sam said, nodding behind Dean. Susie stood at the end of the pavement, outlined by the purple sky as evening fell and brought with it slanted shadows and stronger wind. She wore a jacket wrapped tightly against the cold and her hair was lashing and whipping in the wind. She strode forward, her high-heeled boots hammering against the pavement as she approached, the resolute rhythm cutting through the wind and sirens.

She stopped a few feet away. Her eyes were still red, but her expression was cold. "The party tonight. It's going to be big. You want to be there. Lots of drunk students; susceptible minds. The Professor will be there too. His power is stronger than Damien's; he doesn't need me to brand his victims first. He usually doesn't get involved; just plans, just observes. He will tonight. Stress and alcohol…there's going to be a student brawl. Just devastating. The media's gonna love it. Bloodbath. Columbine for the big kids."

"Why are you telling us this?" Sam asked, shivering as the cold wind snaked through his clothes.

Susie's gaze slid to Dean. "I want you both to know what's going to happen. I want to watch you try to stop it. I want to watch you _fail._ I want you to wade through all these students' blood and know it spilled in vengeance. I want you to know all this as you die trying to prevent the massacre that _you _brought on." Her face crumbled. "I want Damien back," she whispered. "The heroes always win, right? You're not going to this time. Guess that makes you the bad guys." She turned swiftly and walked away.

"That's not real rah rah educational of you," Sam called after her in the absence of a quip from Dean.

"We'll work it in somehow," she answered, not bothering to turn her head.

Sam glanced at Dean. He stood still, watching Susie's retreating back. The clouds overhead and the setting sun lengthened his shadow and deepened the bags under his eyes. The shadows cast by his eyelashes crisscrossed his face, hiding his eyes' expression beneath them. He looked like he could fade away.

"It's rude to stare. Punk."

"You look like shit."

Dean's gaze flickered towards him. "At least I have an excuse."

"But you still won't come to the hospital with me, right?"

"Hospitals are overrated; never any hot nurses about."

Sam nodded and bit his lip. "Do you think the party's even happening? I mean, with Joey's death…"

In the distance, music began playing, thumping the ground and mixing with the howling wind. Students were making their way to the abandoned buildings, trickling over the lawn in small clusters. Sam's heart sank.

Dean cracked a small smile. "Showtime."

* * *

Dean opened the Impala's trunk and let his eyes travel their weapons. The guns and scythes and crosses and crossbows. He reached out and grabbed his favorite shotgun, reached out and grabbed a few small pistols, a few extra bullets, extra rock salt. He lifted his bag and let it rest in the open trunk, unzipping it and shoving in the weapons. He flung the bag over his good shoulder and went to close the trunk, but paused. He let his eyes travel over all the weapons one last time. Each brought with it a story: a hunt completed, a hunt survived. 

He slowly reached up and gripped the trunk, feeling the metal beneath his fingers. He slammed it shut, and though the sound was one of thousands of the same floating in his memories, this time it felt different, distinct. He reached out and pulled the keys from the trunk, listening to them jangle in his hand and remembering the first time his dad handed them to him.

"I'll be back in a second," he said abruptly, tossing the bag at Sam's feet and pocketing the keys.

Sam looked up and nodded, before returning to his perch against the car. He was flipping through the pages of an old book, trying one last time to figure out those symbols.

Dean shoved open the door to the closest bathroom, checking under the stalls to make sure none were occupied, then locked the door behind him. He sighed in exhaustion and sagged against the small sink, gripping it for support. A tap dripped, the water rhythmically clinking against the ceramic, and the pipes overheard gargled in sporadic bursts. Apart from that, it was silent. Dean wasn't even sure he heard his own breathing. He glanced up at the mirror. It was distorted at the edges, giving the room a bowl shape – a greenish yellow frame for the sunken face and scared eyes staring back. That wasn't him, was it? He didn't get hurt or scared, or at least not so that mirrors were able to catch and reflect it.

Dean turned away and leaned against the sink. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Through a fog that seemed to edge onto his senses, Dean accessed the phonebook and watched the names scroll passed the small screen. He stopped on 'Dad' and stared at it for a second. He pressed dial and held the phone to his ear. He knew how many rings to count, knew the click that meant the answering machine had picked up, knew that message by heart.

"You've reached John Winchester…"

Dean threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and shattered, bouncing off and scattering across the floor in a thousand pieces. He'd used his injured arm and a hot pain flashed through him.

"Dammit!" Dean yelled, pushing away from the sink and running a hand through his hair. His shoulder continued to throb and he gritted his teeth and pressed his fists to his eyes as tears threatened.

Was he going to die? Was this how it ended? Before he found his dad and put his family back together? How many more students would be killed because of him? Because he'd pissed off Dr. Evil and hadn't been able to end it before anyone else got hurt. He'd messed up. The bad guys were meant to come after him alone: The one that points the trigger, the one that runs after the danger. They weren't meant to go after anyone in between because there wasn't meant to be anyone in between. Dean had messed up. He'd slipped and entered the world that he was protecting and the bad guys had followed.

Dean drew a shaky breath. "Get a grip."

He stared at his shattered phone for a second then turned back to the sink and splashed some water on his face.

* * *

"Found anything?" Dean asked, ambling back to Sam. He leaned against the car and glanced at the book Sam was still scanning. His jacket crinkled with the movement. 

Sam let out a frustrated breath and snapped the book shut. The action caused a small puff of dust to float into the air. "No, but I have an idea: we hack the room to pieces. Screw discrepancy."

"Finally thinking like your older brother, huh?"

Sam unceremoniously tossed the book into the backseat. "Well, when there's no other choice..."

"We need to burn them," Dean interrupted.

"No! No fire."

Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Dude, you know unless we completely destroy a mark of power, the power stays bound. We need to torch the place."

"No, Dean," Sam said, face set.

"Sam!" Dean yelled. "I know what you saw in your vision, okay, but they're called visions for a reason, they happen." Dean looked away. "I can't have any more deaths on my conscience, Sammy, we gotta burn the place."

Sam's face softened and he sighed, looking away. "Okay," he said after a moment. "But…we're being careful, no crazy Rambo moves. We _have_ to be careful, Dean."

Dean grabbed his bag from where he'd tossed it by Sam's feet. "Let's go save the world then."

Sam snorted softly and lifted his own bag onto his shoulder. His hair flopped into his eyes with the movement.

* * *

They walked in silence, their footsteps slapping the pavement almost in tune with the music thumping the ground. The sky was streaked purple and orange and their shadows stretched before them. 

Dean's shoulder felt heavy and tight, but he tried to ignore it. He glanced at the buildings as they passed them. Lights shone from within the windows and he could see people's dark outlines as they moved around. The line of trees in the distance swayed in the fading light. A few birds flew from the cluster, little black dots fading into the purple sky. He shook his head slightly, annoyed that his concentration was drifting.

More annoying was the way Sam kept glancing at him; the boy wanted to say something.

"Betchya I can still pick up, looking like this," Dean said before Sam had a chance to speak.

Sam smiled slightly. "Before or after we stop the 'massacre'?"

Dean shrugged. "Before _and _after."

Sam rolled his eyes and slowed down. They'd reached the old lot. It was brimming with people. Stereos were set up on the grass outside as well as in the old building. People danced and sat and stood, talking, laughing, eating. Kegs were set up all over the place and the grass was already littered with discarded cups and empty bottles.

"Is that Chris?" Sam asked in surprise, squinting through the dark.

"Guess he's mourning his friend like the guy would've wanted: by getting wasted." Dean fished some packets of matches from his bag and tossed one to Sam. "He's going to be joining Joey real soon if we don't end this."

"Dean." Sam reached out and stopped him.

Dean looked down at the hand on his jacket then up at Sam's hesitant face. "What?"

Before Sam could say anything, a scream tore into the night. They were running before the shriek ended.

* * *

A fight had begun near the side of the old building and was steadily growing as people threw themselves into the brawl, fists flying. One person already lay curled on the grass, blood running from a stab wound in his side made by a broken beer bottle. A girl continued to scream as she tried to staunch the blood with her hands. 

Sam and Dean ducked through the fists and flying bottles, hurrying to kneel by their side. "What happened?" Sam asked, removing the girl's hands and pressing a discarded sweatshirt against the gushing wound. He exchanged a look with Dean. It was bad.

The girl shrieked again as a bottle shattered close by and another guy fell to the ground.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, eyeing the crowd and wisely deciding not to get involved.

"I-I don't know," she sobbed, staring at her boyfriend, or whoever the guy was. "We were all just talking and suddenly Pete takes a swing at Matt and Matt retaliates and then everyone's fighting and people are breaking beer bottles and Matt...he...he _stabbed _Pete and there's all this blood and I-I can't stop the bleeding." She wiped some hair from her face leaving a streak of blood on her forehead.

"Get down!" Dean yelled, shoving the girl and Sam to the ground as a bottle whizzed over their heads. A crash sounded nearby and more screams rang out, followed by loud shouts and further scuffles.

"Son of a bitch," Dean repeated, cautiously removing himself from his protective position over Sam and the girl.

"Come on, you gotta move from here," Sam said, jumping up and grabbing Pete by the arms.

Dean followed suit, grabbing the guy's legs. They moved him, as carefully as they could, to what they hoped was a safe distance from the growing chaos.

"Call an ambulance," Sam instructed the girl, who immediately knelt by Pete's side again.

Sam and Dean left them shielded by the trees and hurried back.

"Sammy, man, I've been in a lot of fights, and I can tell you that they don't get this crazy outside of the movies or, you know, Christmas dinner."

"Guess that's what happens when you mix alcohol and evil, mind-controlling bastards," Sam said. Then his eyes widened and he jumped into the fray, grabbing a guy by the arm before he could plunge a knife into a girl's neck. "Get out of here," Sam yelled at her, twisting the guy's arm behind his back and forcing him to drop the knife. The girl stood frozen for a second, then kicked her attacker in the groin and ran.

Sam let go of the boy's arm and let him double over in pain, satisfied that he was out for the count. Dean, having managed to squeeze himself through the crowd, punched him in the face for good measure and grinned as the guy slumped to the ground.

"Let's go," Dean said, slapping Sam's jacket.

Sam looked hesitant, eyes traveling over the people cowering behind upturned tables, over the people holding knifes and broken bottles and planks of wood torn from god knows where, and over the people rolling injured on the grass.

"Sam, come on," Dean repeated. "We can stand out here all night defending the weak and all that, or we can torch those symbols and end this thing ten times faster."

Sam nodded and reluctantly turned his back, cringing as more screams bit into the night.

* * *

Inside the building, people were watching the fights from windows, arms wrapped around each other in comfort. 

"He can't risk bringing the fight too close to the room with the symbols," Sam realized. "These old walls aren't exactly stable."

"Well, _we're_ bringing it to him." Dean drew his bag forward and pulled out a canister of kerosene.

Everyone in the room screamed and stumbled backwards as one of the windows shattered and a body fell through.

Sam hurried forward. The fall had cut up the guy's face and blood ran from him in rivulets. Sam grabbed him beneath the shoulders and carefully pulled him the rest of the way into the room. He felt for a pulse.

"He alive?" Dean asked. The guy looked young.

"Yeah," Sam muttered. "Just."

Anger coursing through him, Dean unscrewed the kerosene can and began dousing the room.

"What are you doing?" a girl asked in alarm. She had a mess of curly red hair.

"Torching the place," Dean said, shaking the can. "Get out, all of you."

"What? Are you fucking out of your mind? We can't go out there!"

"You stay in here, you burn," Sam yelled, surprising Dean. Sam gestured at the unconscious body by his feet. "Here, you have to take him with you. But be careful. Stick to the side, don't try to cut through the fighting, avoid eye contact and get to the trees. Then wait for an ambulance."

Nobody moved. Dean sighed and glanced at Sam, who nodded. Dean struck a match and held it above the kerosene-soaked floor. "Goodness gracious, great balls of fire."

"Alright!" the girl yelled. "We're leaving."

"Knew you college kids were smart." Dean shook out the mach.

"Who the hell are you?" a gangly kid with frosted tips asked on his way to the door, a disgusted look on his face.

"Two crazy pyromaniacs," Dean said.

Sam showed a few of the students how to pick up the unconscious boy and watched nervously as they carried the guy to the door. Dean would've helped but he didn't trust his own strength. He felt like he was quivering from the inside out and knew that only adrenaline was keeping him from collapsing.

Once the students had left, he and Sam dug their fingers into the wood planks covering the hole that led into room of symbols and pulled until they felt it give way. The planks snapped from the wall, revealing the professor standing in the middle of the room, arms raised and lips moving in a silent spell. The symbols were glowing.

The professor's lips didn't stop moving, but his gaze slid to theirs. He grinned. An invisible energy knocked into Sam and Dean and they found themselves flying into the opposite wall, their backs slamming against the rotting wood.

Sam groaned and pulled himself up, cringing with the effort. "You okay?" he wheezed, turning to Dean.

"I'm pissed off." Dean used the wall to steady himself, blinking a few times to clear his wavering vision. He wasn't out of this fight. Not yet. His vision focused and landed on the yellow liquid running down the floor. He surged forward and grabbed the upturned kerosene can before all the fluid ran out. "Here," he said, shoving it into Sam's hands. "I'm going to distract him."

"No, Dean," Sam said, in the same tone he'd used on those kids. He passed back the canister. "_I'll _distract him. And if you want to argue," Sam quickly added before Dean could protest, "how many fingers am I holding up?"

Dean sighed. "Two, you idiot. But okay, I get the point. Go, tall one, distract. But hey," he grabbed Sam's jacket, stopping him. "You get yourself hurt, I'm shaving off your eyebrows."

"Ditto," Sam said, before bolting into the room and flying at the professor before either he or Dean could react.

"Shit!" Dean yelled, hurrying after him and flinging the fluid across the room as the professor threw Sam off him. Sam collided with a wall and slumped, stunned.

"Hey!" Dean yelled, getting the professor's attention before he could advance on his brother.

The professor turned, his eyes traveling to the lit match in Dean's fingers. Dean grinned and let it drop. The flame caught instantly, racing through the building, snaking up the walls, spitting ferociously. The heat that sprang forward with the flames stung Dean's eyes.

"Sam! C'mon!" Dean jumped the rows of flames that were steadily reaching higher and helped Sam from the ground. They covered their heads and ran for the exit.

"Dean!" Sam yelled. He'd stopped and was staring back at the room.

Dean turned to find the professor's lips still moving in chant. He had one hand lifted out towards the flames, magically keeping them at bay and pushing them from the symbol's reach. "Give us a break!"

Just as he said it, the professor's eyes locked with Dean's and he and Sam again found themselves tossed like rag dolls, smashing through the front door and landing in a painful heap on the grass outside.

Dean groaned. "I didn't mean break our bones."

Sam tried to pull himself into a sitting position but his hand slipped on the grass. He looked at it and gasped. His hand was red. Sam quickly jumped up off the ground and Dean followed, if a bit slower. They turned in circles, eyes cast downward, noting how the grass shone brown. It was slick with blood.

"Whose is that?" Sam whispered.

"Take your pick," Dean said, casting his eyes over the huge fight that had engulfed the party.

The shouts and screams almost drowned out the fire crackling from the building. Bodies were being flung and hit and clothing torn, tables upturned and stereos tumbling to the ground in a jumble of sparks. Dean took it all in with disbelief. They were surrounded. Fucking surrounded by possessed, drunken college kids.

"Look out!"

At Sam's shout, Dean whipped around and had to spring out of the way to avoid being bowled over by a duo locked in a runaway battle of fists. The duo fell to the ground and continued attacking. One bit the other on the arm. Dean frowned and was about to step in when he felt someone collide into him. He fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Trying to catch his breath, Dean grabbed the slick grass and pulled himself out from under the body pinning him. He scrambled up, only to have to duck another blow while simultaneously grabbing a foot before it could kick him in the stomach. He flipped the foot's owner to the ground, risking a look in Sam's direction.

Sam was fighting his own growing group of assailants. All wore dazed expressions, and all were ruthless and unrelenting in their moves, diving in danger's way just for a chance to land a punch or kick. Dean tried to reach him, but was again bowled to the ground. Gritting his teeth, Dean quickly rolled away and sprung up, eyeing the crowd circling him growing frustration.

"Cut it out!" Pain sparked through his shoulder but he ignored it. A few of the possessed students edged forward. "I mean it!" Dean's eyes widened when he saw a table leg flying in his direction. He ducked, only to again find himself tackled to the ground. Dammit! He didn't have time for this! He had to help Sam.

From the corner of his eye, he could tell Sam was actually fairing better than him, uninhibited by fresh injuries, but Dean's pride wouldn't take being beat up by a bunch of college nerds, possessed or not. He scrambled up and eyed each assailant as they began circling him again. "I was trained by an ex marine, trust funds won't buy you that, kiddies."

He managed to break through the circle of students without hurting anyone too badly. Breath ragged, sweat running down his face and eyes stinging from the heat as flames licked through the building's old walls, Dean stumbled to where Sam still fought.

A guy wearing a checkered shirt and tight pants ran into the brawl and appeared about to jump Sam. Then Dean saw the glint of metal.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, running forward.

Sam turned but only managed to widen his eyes before the knife plunged, tearing a jagged path down his upper arm. Sam dropped to his knees with a cry, hand flying to the gash.

Dean reached the scene and grabbed the guy's wrist, twisting the knife away and punching him across the face. He fell, hard. Dean picked up the knife and tossed it as far as he could.

"Run," Sam panted, face contorted in pain, nodding at the next group of would-be assailants. They turned and bolted, skidding and stumbling on the slick grass.

"Over here," Dean grabbed Sam by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him behind an upturned picnic table that sat just beyond the fighting. They slumped against it, breathing hard and letting their heads rest against the split plastic.

Dean swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. He glanced at his brother. Blood ran through Sam's fingers as he held them tightly against the wound. "You okay?"

Sam just nodded, lifting his hand to look at the bloodied gash. "It's no spear through the shoulder."

"It sucks that we can say that."

"How's your head?" Sam asked, nodding at a spot on Dean's forehead.

Dean felt his head in surprise. Sticky blood met his touch. "Just a scratch," he mumbled, worried that he hadn't been able to feel it. Dean shook off the concern and glanced back at the fighting. The flames from the building were growing larger, bathing the scene in a wavering orange light and crackling so loudly he could barely hear the grunts of pain and frantic scuffling that had consumed his hearing whilst in the midst of the fighting.

He let out a frustrated breath and pounded the grass. Sam too glanced back behind them and then shut his eyes, banging his head against the table. "We're being run from the hunt by a bunch of frat boys! Do you realize how absurd that is?"

"And we're hiding behind a plastic table," Dean added.

"And not just frat boys," Sam continued. "I swear Brenda tried to kick me."

"This is not the big bang I planned to go out in."

Sam glanced at him. He looked angry. He opened his mouth but a bloodcurdling scream cut off whatever he'd been about to say. It lasted only a second before it was abruptly silenced. Sam grew pale, and Dean knew the look reflected his own.

"People are dying," Sam whispered.

Dean looked back at the scene playing out behind them. He looked at the blood splattered grass, then at the fire wrapping itself around the exits. He listened to the shouts and to his brother's ragged breaths. And he heard the professor's voice in his head: _On your shoulders..._

Something dark grew in him then, hardening him. He knew what he had to do.

Dean pulled himself up. Sam's arm shot out and grabbed him. "What are you doing?" he asked, alarmed.

"I have to destroy those symbols. I can't have a bloodbath on my conscience, Sammy. I can't."

Sam scrambled up. "It's suicide, going back there, you know that right?"

"I know; that's why you're staying here."

It took a second for Sam to respond. "What?" he yelled, jumping in front of Dean and holding out an arm, stopping him.

"Sam," Dean growled. "We don't have time for this!"

"You're right, we don't, so get over the hero complex. We do this together or not at all." His voice sounded thick but he looked like he was ready to lash out.

"Dammit, Sammy." Dean wanted to yell and get angry, order Sam to stay here and demand he not argue. "Let me do this," he whispered instead, imploring Sam because he never could demand anything from the kid.

For a second Sam looked like he was about to crumple, but his face hardened instead and he roughly pushed passed Dean. "No," he said, defiantly striding for the building.

Dean reached out and grabbed his arm. "You're a little shit, you know that?"

"Why is my life more important than yours?" Sam yelled.

"It just is!" Dean swallowed and looked away. "Don't hate me when you wake up."

"What?" Sam frowned.

Knowing he had no other choice, Dean reeled back his fist and swung it at Sam's head, hitting him squarely across the jaw. Sam swayed for a second before falling to his knees, dazed.

Dean blinked in surprise. "How didn't that knock you out?"

Cursing fate for making him do this a _second _time, he hit Sam again, cringing as his fist connected with a hollow thump. Sam fell unconscious to the ground. "Sorry, Sammy," he said. "But geez you have a hard head."

Carefully hooking his arms beneath Sam's shoulders, Dean dragged his limp brother back behind the table, leaning him against it in what he hoped was a comfortable position. Reluctant to leave him alone, Dean scanned the surrounding area and noticed Chris and a few of his friends standing behind some trees, watching the carnage from a safe distance.

"Hey!" Dean yelled.

The shout startled them and they instinctively backed up.

"Chris, buddy, come over here"

"You come over here!"

_Brat. _"Come on, man, I need a favor."

"What sort of favor?'

"Would you just get over here!"

Chris glanced at his friends then slowly ambled over, stepping back every time noise from the fighting startled him. Dean sighed impatiently. At this rate everyone would be dead by the time he moved out from behind this frickin' table.

"The world's gone twilight zone crazy, man," Chris said when he finally reached Dean. "Or we're in a fucking nightmare. Pinch me."

"Pinch yourself. How much have you had to drink tonight?" Dean glanced back at the fire and had to stop himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Half a beer," Chris answered.

"You sure that's it?" He couldn't risk Chris getting possessed while Sam was defenseless.

"Yeah, I-I couldn't without Joey, you know?"

"Okay, good, can you watch my brother while he's out?"

Chris looked down at Sam, noticing him for the first time. "Whoa, dude, is he hurt or wasted? Well, yeah, doesn't matter I guess. Sure, yeah sure, I'll make sure he's isn't knifed or anything."

Dean nodded, relieved. "Thanks, man. Um, when he wakes up, tell him…" _Tell him I love him and that I'm sorry and that he better live one hell of a life and die surrounded by stupid fat grandchildren. _"Tell him to put a cold one on the bruise. Works better than ice."

Taking one last look at Sam's slumped body, Dean turned and barreled through the crowd, rushing into the burning building.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks again for your patience guys, hope it was worth the wait. Two more chapters to go and a few more twists along the way ;)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: It's a shorter update than usual - sorry about that, but I really wanted this chapter to end where it does.**

**Again I apologise for how long it took me to update...life's been getting in the way :S Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck by this story - you guys rock, and I mean it! **

**Chapter 9: **

The room was bathed in sea of orange, and the heat was enough to take Dean's breath away. But the noise…the noise was like being trapped inside the memory of his burning house.

Shaking off the thought, Dean blinked passed the smoke. He could just make out the back room. It was still intact. Pulling his jacket up over his nose to guard himself from the smoke, Dean pulled his gun from his waistband. He could see the professor just beyond the haphazard opening, keeping the fire at bay. That son of a bitch wasn't getting out of here alive.

Keeping his gun close, Dean hurried forward. He lifted the weapon and pulled the trigger just as the professor noticed his entrance. The surprised look flew off Linberg's face as rock salt exploded from the barrel, hitting him squarely in the chest.

"Weren't expecting that, were you?" Dean tossed the gun aside and drew out a small canister, this time hurling the fluid directly over the symbols. Cursing his shaking hands, willing himself faster, Dean drew a match and flicked it onto the walls. The liquid glowed orange for half a second, illuminating the symbols, then burst into flames.

"No!"

Linberg was back on his feet, eyes traveling with the fire as it raced over the symbols.

"Argh!" Linberg cried out and fell to one knee, clutching his stomach, face contorted in pain. For a second he was quiet, resting his forehead on his knee. Then he spoke in a voice mangled with barely controlled rage: "You know what? I'd planned to kill the people you cared about. That fat friend, your brother, your fake classmates. I'd planned to let you live with the knowledge of the pain you wrought…but I've changed my mind." He looked up and locked eyes with Dean. "I want to hurt you more." He sprung up and catapulted forward with surprising speed, grabbing Dean by his shirt lapels and slamming him against one of the flaming walls.

Dean's eyes widened as the smell of burning cloth assaulted his senses. He shoved Linberg away, who stumbled backwards and laughed as Dean tore off the jacket, stamping out the flames.

"Laugh in the face of death type, huh?" Dean spat. It hadn't passed his attention that Linberg's strength was weakening, and would continue to weaken as the symbols burned. He just had to survive that long.

"I'm not the one facing death." Linberg swung his fist, but Dean ducked into a roll and grabbed a plank of wood on his way up. He snapped it in half over his knee and plunged it into Linberg's back.

The professor screamed, but he didn't fall. Seething, he reached behind himself and pulled the wood out, stumbling slightly as it came loose. "You can't kill me," he snarled, tossing aside the plank of wood.

"Not yet, but soon." Dean nodded at the flames steadily engulfing the symbols. Soon they'd be destroyed and Linberg's immortality would disappear. Soon Dean would get his chance to end this.

Linberg glanced at the symbols, the light reflecting a fear in his eyes. He licked his lips slowly, almost thoughtfully, and turned to smile at Dean. Then, taking Dean by surprise, Linberg shoved passed him and bolted for the door.

"Hey," Dean yelled. "Son of a bitch!" He catapulted himself after Linberg, tackling him to the floor. He couldn't let him escape. Not now. Linberg could have a backup somewhere in his dark magic stash - a way to remain immortal if these symbols were ever destroyed. Dean wasn't going to let that happen. Linberg shoved Dean aside and tried to roll away, but Dean punched him once and sprung up first, placing himself between Linberg and the exit. He ignored the flames flickering closer.

Eyes trained on Dean, Linberg slowly pulled himself up and brushed the dirt from his jacket. His calm movements couldn't mask the panic in his eyes. "Shall we do the civilized thing and take this outside?"

"Sorry, I left my civilized way and fencing sword in the Middle Ages."

Linberg's face twitched and his lips stretched back, almost snarling. He glanced back at the burning symbols, and then fought a groan, his hands clutching his side, as more of his power dissipated. He swung his gaze back to the door that Dean was blocking. "Don't be a fool. By the time those symbols burn away, this whole building will have burnt with them. We'll both die."

The flames were drawing closer, edging onto their only exit. Dean could feel their heat on his back, feel his face grow warmer and his clothes dampen with sweat. The fire was crackling so loudly he couldn't hear anything beyond it, nothing from the outside. It was just him and Linberg and a decision that rest on his shoulders.

Linberg's eyes bore into Dean's. They were filled with hatred and panic. And something else: triumph. Linberg only studied negative human emotions. He didn't believe in heroes. But neither did Dean. So he silently asked Sam to forgive him for not being one. And he smiled. "I'm roasty toasting your insides."

Whatever happened next, it was worth it to see Linberg's face slacken in shock before reddening in anger. "You're a right fuck up and I'm going to see you in hell!"

Dean waggled his finger. "Language."

Linberg lurched forward and Dean took the hit, falling to the ground and snagging Linberg's arm on his way down. Linberg wrapped his fingers into fists around Dean's shirt and slammed him repeatedly against the floor. But the only thing that mattered was making sure Linberg didn't get out of here, making sure Dean held onto him in a grip that no beating could release.

Which didn't mean he wouldn't take the low blow if the opportunity presented itself: Dean kneed Linberg in the groin and pushed him away. As Linberg groaned and doubled over, Dean sprung up and barreled into him. They tumbled into one of the burning tables, their bodies extinguishing the flames.

John had always taught Dean that it only took one mistake to kiss his life goodbye. Dean grew up understanding that he was always one slip from the bad guy's reach. As Dean felt the table splinter and collapse beneath him - the sound merging with the crash of a few overheard beams that could no longer withstand the heat - as the fire ate into the building's core and licked closer to his head, Dean made the mistake. It was ironic really: he was so intent on ignoring his injuries that he'd forgotten to shield them. Never let them attack your weak spot, that was something else John had taught him. He wished he'd remembered it.

Linberg had grabbed a piece of wood and slammed it down on Dean's shoulder, right on top of the damaged flesh. Dean gasped as hot pain flashed through him. He'd made his mistake, he'd slipped, and now Linberg had the upper hand and wasn't letting go.

Dean felt himself lifted, felt the sweet sensation of air rush passed him a second before he slammed into a hot wall that splintered and collapsed on impact. Embers and wood rained down on him. Dean forced himself from the wreckage, forced himself to blink passed the smoke, forced himself to tackle Linberg one more time as he tried again to escape. Linberg flung Dean from his back. The smoke and heat and pain slowed Dean's senses and he didn't have time to prepare himself for the fall. He landed awkwardly on one knee with a sickening crunch and a blinding burst of red that stole his vision for a second.

Linberg strode forward and pulled Dean from the floor, digging his fingers into Dean's wounded shoulder. He hit Dean in the face with a loud, hollow smack. Dean's head whipped back and there was silence for a second. The world slowed down and the fire stopped advancing to become a blanket of orange light instead. He remembered the lights that used to hang above Sam's crib, turning in circles and bathing his brother orange. So there was a time when the colour hadn't meant pain and loss. There was a time when it had danced on Sammy's chubby cheeks as the boy laughed and watched him. Dean smiled as his baby brother cooed and he couldn't tell if the sound was from inside his memory or if he really was standing by the crib. A second later, the sounds of fire and collapsing wood returned with a rush and Dean fell to the ground as blood splattered the floor, but he didn't care. He didn't mind dying by the light of a fire anymore.

Groggily, Dean turned to see a fist flying towards his face. He let his gaze drift to the ceiling and watched the bright embers float down before something cracked and pain stole his vision. Linberg hit him again and again, and all Dean could do was shut his eyes and try to block out the sound of flesh hitting flesh. His flesh. But just as a black blanket began to descend, blocking out the pain, it stopped. Dean listened and waited but no last blow came. He almost wished it would. The pain was returning, spreading from a million different spots on his face and he could taste blood and feel the hot air tug at split skin. Dean opened his eyes and found Linberg staring at the door in horror.

Dean turned his head. The door was engulfed by flames, the last inch of wood consumed in front of their eyes. Dean laughed. He laughed a deep, long laugh that shook his body and made tears run from his eyes. He laughed like his life had all been one big joke and this was the punch line. He tried to pull himself up, but his left leg refused to move. Dean glanced down at it. His jeans were torn at the knee and something white peeked out from the cloth. He laughed harder and shifted his weight so that he could draw himself up on his good knee. The world spun and spun around him in circles, faster and faster, brighter and brighter, like those lights above Sammy's crib. Then the spinning stopped and he locked eyes with the professor. He grinned.

"What the hell is so funny!"

"I'm going out in a blaze of glory. Literally," Dean said. "Come on, that's funny."

Linberg charged at him, but Dean refused to move. He watched the professor approach and, letting his instincts take control, letting them consume any sense of caution or care that used to hold him back, Dean waited until Linberg was within reach then grabbed him, hit him to the ground, drew him close and snapped his neck. It took less than a second.

Dean blinked and the adrenaline retreated, blinked again and the pain retreated with it. He looked down at Linberg's still face. Before his eyes, it decomposed just as Damien's body had. Dean shoved the body away in disgust and it crumbled, the fire greedily pouncing on the remains.

A block of burning wood fell just beside Dean's legs. Dean flinched as the flames singed his skin. He knew he had to move. He knew it, but he didn't want to. If he let his concentration slip, which wasn't hard, the heat could be warm like a blanket. The smoke choking him could actually be death's hands easing him to sleep. The falling embers and collapsing wood just a show for his departure. And the tears on his cheeks he'd just ignore.

He blinked and found the floor staring back at him at a skewered angle. Blinked again and saw that the floor was now dancing and flickering and glowing orange. Blinked again and a feeling like the sun's warm rays bathed his face. He could no longer feel his body's coughing fits. He knew he was dying when all he could feel was his dad's arms around him, lifting him into the air, when all he could see was his mother dressed in green and brown, no white to be seen. He knew he was dying when he heard Sam laughing happily. He knew he was dying, but he didn't care. He laughed with Sam and held onto his dad and watched his mother's smiling face.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10:**

Sam woke with a groan and a feeling of urgency that he couldn't place. He blinked back the fog and realized it was smoke: thick black smoke curling through the air. He sat up with a gasp.

"Whoa, dude, you okay?"

Sam whipped around, but his heart sank when he saw that it was only Chris staring down. "Where's Dean?" Sam asked, using the table to pull himself up. His jaw throbbed something awful.

Chris just pointed at the building, eyes wide.

Sam followed his gaze and almost stumbled in horror. The building was alight. He had to tighten his grip on the table as flames leapt into the sky. "He…He went in there?" Sam asked, blinking back tears. "D-did he…did he come _back?"_

Chris shook his head slowly.

"NO!"

He hadn't screamed. Growing more numb as the flames increased, Sam turned to find Susie running onto the scene. Face pale, she grabbed her head and watched the flames in shock. "No! The symbols!"

Just as she said it, the fighting still ravaging the lawn suddenly ceased and the students stumbled and blinked, as if waking from a dream. "Oh god!" Susie cried. "Professor!" But she barely got the words out before she too gasped and stumbled, body convulsing for a second before she collapsed. That meant the spell was broken, Susie wasn't being possessed anymore, which meant…

"Dean!" Finally overcoming his horror, Sam ran for the building, using his arms as a useless shield against the heat. "Dean!" He ran the length of the building, trying to find an entrance. _No, no, no, no. Please not __like this._The heat and falling embers brought tears to his eyes. "No!" He dropped to his knees as his chest closed in grief.

Then he saw it. A window. Small and almost lost to the flames, but intact. Daring to hope, Sam scrambled forward, ignoring the heat making the air around him waver. Blinking passed the smoke, his heart skipped when he saw Dean's crumpled body. "Dean!"

He turned from the window and grabbed a nearby garden hose. He then pulled a cloth from one of the tables still standing and soaked the cloth. He smashed open the window and pulled himself inside. The strength of the flames almost knocked Sam backwards and he could feel his skin begin to blister, but he ignored it and ran to his brother.

Sam lifted Dean from the floor and flung the wet cloth around him. He pulled Dean's limp body close and half carried, half dragged him to the window. Not knowing what he was doing, acting on panic alone, Sam awkwardly maneuvered Dean through the window, cringing as he was forced to let his brother drop to the ground below. He quickly followed, tumbling from the building when he realized he was on fire. Once outside, he tore off his jacket and stamped out the flames. Dean remained still. Sam grabbed Dean under his shoulders and lifted him, knowing he had to get them away from this building. The blanket fell away and Sam almost cried out when he saw Dean's mangled knee.

Dammit! He maneuvered Dean so that he was able to lift him over his shoulder. "Hold on, Dean," Sam whispered, needing to believe Dean could hear him.

When Sam finally reached the upturned table, Chris had disappeared. Trying to ignore his own trembling muscles, Sam gently lowered Dean to the ground. "Dean?" he whispered, brushing a hand over his brother's face. Soot painted his skin black, but blisters still peeked through. "Dean?" Sam choked out. He wanted to feel for a pulse, but his hand refused to leave Dean's forehead: a cold had begun to emanate from Dean's skin as the effects of the heat faded.

"Dean, wake up. You don't die, man. You're not meant to die. It was Professor Linberg who Susie saw in that vision. Not you. It was never meant to be you. Her vision was warning her about _him_, she just mistook it for you. It was a mistake. So don't you dare follow him." Sam's voice cracked and he took a deep breath. He removed his hand from Dean's head and slowly pressed his fingers against Dean's neck, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Wait. Was that…Yes, it was, a pulse!

It took Sam a few seconds to react, for the numbness creeping into his heart to retract. Then the relief hit and he found himself laughing.

Dean groaned softly.

"Dean? Hey," Sam said, startled by the noise. "You're okay, help's coming."

"Then…" Dean's eyes were still shut and his voice was so low that Sam had to lean closer to hear him. "Then…why are you l-laughing at me…jerk."

Dean's eyes fluttered open. They shone bright against his black face.

Sam grinned and shook his head. "Guess I'm just insensitive like that."

"You…you woke me up from a good…good dream."

Sam laughed again despite himself. "Sorry."

"H-help…me up, would you."

Sam hurried behind Dean and gently lifted him, wincing as Dean groaned with the movement. One arm keeping Dean steady, Sam scooted back to his side and watched as Dean sluggishly held out an arm and looked at the blisters running along it. "My face still pretty?"

"When was it ever pretty? Seriously, man, are you okay?"

Dean glanced at him and even though he was cringing with pain, he still managed to look annoyed. "Y-you asked stupid questions." He glanced away and Sam swore a smile touched his brother's lips. "R-ready to skip out on college a…a second time?"

"If you let me take you to the hospital," Sam said, trying to sound firm but knowing the relief was ruining his efforts.

Dean shrugged slightly. The movement looked heavy. "Not…not really a fan of m-my knee being on the outside, so… sure, why not."

Sam helped Dean up, wrapping one arm tightly around his waist so that Dean didn't have to lean any weight on his damaged leg. Dean was shivering and still felt limp, but he was standing, and that was enough for Sam.

Dean looked over his shoulder, towards the lawn. "The kids, the fights, has it…is anyone still…"

"It's over, Dean," Sam said softly. "You ended it."

Dean nodded and grabbed onto the table, cringing as his burnt hands made contact. He nudged Sam away, nodding to their bags. "Grab our wallets and shit, lots of pissed off students saw us torch that place."

Sam nodded and went to retrieve them. "How's your jaw?" Dean asked. He didn't sound guilty.

Sam turned to face him and gingerly felt the bruise, though more for show than anything. "Sore, bruised, sore. I've had worse."

"Doubt it," Dean said, a cocky smile emerging from the soot.

Sam opened his mouth to respond but found that a gasp emerged instead, a second before he was splattered in blood. Dean's blood. And like stuck in a nightmare, he found he couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare in shock at the large spear protruding from Dean's chest, shining red, dripping red. Then it was ripped back out, the sick sound mixing with Dean's strangled cry.

Dean and Sam just stood for a second, staring at each other in shock. Then Dean fell to the ground, revealing Susie standing behind him with the bloodied spear in her hand.

* * *

Dean heard the tear and saw the blood dripping from the spear's end before he felt the pain. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew something should be hurting like hell, but for a second all he could to do was stare in confusion at the tip of the spear protruding from his chest. Then it was torn from him in a blaze of hot pain.

Dean cried out and he was falling. He must have been because the world spun and tilted, then flashed white. Then a flash of his brother slamming the door and leaving for college, of his dad's back as he left for that last hunt, of a ball of fire exploding from high up in one of the windows of their old house.

_Dean!_ Sam's voice. Dean blinked. He was staring up at Sam's stricken face and he tried to respond but found himself choking instead.

* * *

"Dean!" The sound of Dean's body hitting the grass and the small gasp of pain that followed snapped Sam out of his stupor and he scrambled to Dean's side. He ripped off his jacket and gathered it into a tight ball to press against the Dean's chest. Dean's clothes were already stained a shiny crimson, the blood running from him in rivulets, staining Sam's hands and the grass beneath them. "No! Dean!"

Dean's body convulsed in response, his breathing hindered by the blood and cries of pain getting caught in his throat. His good leg dug grooves into the grass and his shaking hands reached up to claw at the jacket. Dean was panicking.

Susie laughed, her eyes wide and rimmed red. The bloodied spear was still clutched in her hand, Dean's blood dripping off it. "I wasn't possessed, you fools! I wasn't like the others; Damien never needed to cast a spell over me: I was his freely! I believed in their cause!"

"Dean, stay still," Sam ordered, trying to see passed his own panic, trying to keep Dean's arms at his side while holding the jacket firmly against Dean's chest. The blood had now reached the knees of Sam's jeans.

"I believed in it!" Susie screamed. "I believed in it! You ruined our work! Centuries of _their_ work!" The blood continued to drip from her spear.

"Dean, please," Sam begged as Dean choked out a sob that brought fresh blood flowing from his mouth, staining his lips a darker red. "Stay still."

Sam's voice cracked as he tried to hold Dean down, but Dean arched more violently and his face drained of colour and his fingers clawed at the red grass.

"You ruined everything!" Susie screamed.

Sam's head was swimming as police sirens clanged in the distance and as the red from their lights illuminated Dean's scared face, disappearing for a second before lighting up again in an endless circle of red and dark. And Dean gaped and Susie continued to scream and Sam's head kept growing heavier and heavier.

"I believed in their cause!"

Then a loud shot rang out and the world spun into silence as Susie hit the ground, dead. And Sam found himself pointing a smoking gun where she had just stood, the cold from its hilt stealing the heat from his body.

"S-S…Sam."

Sam turned back to Dean, still clutching the gun. "Oh god, Dean." The jacket sat heavy and useless on Dean's chest and a circle of blood slowly spread out. Dean's body had stopped arching and he now just lay trembling as small convulsions shook his body. His glassy eyes bore into Sam's and his mouth opened and closed a few times.

Sam choked back a sob and clutched at Dean's shirt, pressing his forehead to Dean's in grief. Dean felt cold and Sam could hear his struggled attempts to breathe. Sam leaned back and let his eyes travel Dean's body as the trembling slowed. He took Dean's hand and held it tightly, forcing a smile as he brushed the hair from Dean's forehead. He wanted to promise that it'd be okay, that it would all turn out fine, but he knew he couldn't.

"It's going to be okay, Dean."

So he lied.

Dean's eyes continued to bore into his. "I'm…I'm…."

Sam clutched Dean's hand tighter and blinked as tears fell. "Please, Dean…please, just…don't talk, okay? Just save your strength."

"I'm…I'm….so…so haunting your ass."

Sam laughed despite himself, the tears rolling freely now.

The sirens and lights grew louder and closer but it didn't matter: Dean's hand had gone limp. In the distant someone shouted something about putting the gun down, the sound of footsteps running, another shout, more footsteps.

"Dean," Sam sobbed. Scooting closer, he reached to lift his silent brother into arms, but found himself tackled to the ground instead, arms pinned behind his back, the gun wrenched from his hands. "No!" Sam yelled, trying to turn him head and look at Dean. "No! Help him! Help him, please! Dean!"

Dean remained motionless as Sam was dragged away, the moonlight reflecting gently off his pale face and the circle of blood surrounding him.

* * *

There were witnesses who had seen Susie stab Dean with the spear, who saw Sam and Dean attempting to rescue people, and Chris had stepped forward saying it'd been in self-defense that Sam had shot Susie – a good kid, that one. The police weren't going to arrest Sam. So he just sat by Dean's bed in the ICU, waiting. Chris and Brenda had brought a bright bouquet of flowers and a Get Well card the day before. The gifts sat on the night table, looking oddly displaced against the white furniture and dark bruises and welts covering Dean's skin. Sam slowly stood and walked around Dean's bed. He picked up the flowers, stared at them for a second, then let them drop into the waste basket. He returned to his seat and waited.

* * *

He kept seeing flashes. A flash of his brother slamming the door and leaving for college, of his dad's back as he left for that last hunt, of a ball of fire exploding from high up in one of the windows of their old house.

Then a flash of his dad running from their house with baby Sam bundled in his arms. And Dean found the strength to fight.

He opened his eyes.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about the wait between chapters, but there you go...the end. Please review if you've stuck with me and let me know you're out there! And thank you so much for reading :D **


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